THE   WORLD'S    OWN. 


THE   WORLD'S    OWN. 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE, 

AUTHOR  OF   "  PASSION   FLOWERS "   AND   "  WORDS  FOR  THB  HOCK." 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LVH. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


HOBART   *    BOBBINS, 

!C«w  England  Typ«  »nd  Stereotype  Foundrj, 

B08TOS. 


'PS 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


COUNT  LOTHAIR. 

EDWARD,  an  artist. 

LORENZO,  friend  to  Edward. 

JACQUES,  a  villager. 

BONIFACE,  an  inn-keeper. 

THE  PRINCE. 

HUON,       \ 

BERTO,      \  Nobles,  friends  of  Lothair. 

ORSETTI,  ) 

JACOB,  a  Jew. 

LEONORA,  the  Queen  of  the  village. 

KATCHEN,  her  friend  and  servant. 

BERTHA,    \ 

SUSANNE,  V  village  girls. 

LOULOU,     ) 

A  FLOWER  GIRL. 

COUNTESS   HELEN,  wife  to  Count  Lothair. 

ARTHUR,  son  of  Lothair. 

ZINGARA,  a  Gypsy. 

PEASANTS,  COURTIERS,  MASKS,  GUARDS. 


The  scene  in  the  first  two  acts  is  laid  in  a  village  in  the  mountains 
of  Piedmont,  near  the  Italian  frontier  ;  in  the  third  act,  in  an  Italian 
town.  The  last  two  acts  are  supposed  to  take  place  at  the  court  of  a 
small  Italian  principality. 

The  time  is  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century. 


17 

V     4     •»»-    • 

GLISH 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 


ACT    FIRST. 

• 
SCENE  I. — A  Village  Green,  with  peasants  dancing  to  the 

sound  of  rustic  music.  In  the  front  stand  EDWARD  and 
JACQUES,  looking  on.  The  dance  ceases;  the  villagers  dis 
perse. 

EDWARD. 

COMES  Leonora  to  the  dance  no  more  ? 
I  thought  to  find  her  here. 

JACQUES. 

In  other  ways 

She  wanders,  with  the  stranger  from  the  inn, 
That  supercilious  Signor  Prettyman, 
Whose   pleasure-travel  stopped,  some  three  weeks 

since, 
For  the  repairing  of  a  carriage-spring. 

EDWARD. 

Three  weeks  to  set  so  small  a  matter  right  ? 

Your  smiths  are  bunglers. 

(T) 


8  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

JACQUES  (significantly). 

There  '11  be  more  to  mend, 
And  worse,  I  fear. 

EDWARD. 

What  mean  you  ?    Tell  me  straight. 
You  speak  in  riddles  I  am  loth  to  read. 
Dares  he  aspire  to  Leonora's  love  ? 

JACQUES. 

Aspire  ?     I  tell  you  he  's  a  gentleman, 
A  man  of  courts  —  no  rustic.     He  aspire  ? 
He  has  won,  and  wears  it  most  familiarly. 

EDWARD  (aside). 

I  've  heard  enough,  —  yet  let  me  learn  the  worst. 
Are  they  betrothed,  then  ? 

JACQUES. 

Do  you  dream  such  men 

Marry  such  maidens  ?     They  are  matched  in  naught 
On  earth,  save  pride  and  beauty. 

EDWARD. 

Matched  in  beauty  ? 

The  matchless  mated  ?     Could  her  pride  avail 
To  shield  her  better  treasures,  I  'd  forgive  it ; 
But  all  your  words  imply  is  new  to  me, 
Who  went  away  two  weary  years  ago, 
With  other  thoughts  of  her.     You  can  relate 


THE    WORLD  S    OWN. 

Doubtless,  how  all  befell.     Where  did  they  meet  ? 
How  grew  this  liking  ? 

JACQUES. 

I  '11  inform  you  straight. 
At  such  an  evening  festival  as  this, 
Just  over,  ere  the  dancing  was  at  end, 
The  stranger  passed,  and  saw  what  we  have  seen. 
He  had  left  his  carriage  at  the  smithy  yonder, 
For  some  repair,  and,  to  beguile  an  hour, 
With  listless  air  was  wandering  hither,  thither. 
The  music,  haply,  lured  him  to  this  spot, 
But  with  a  vacant  and  abstracted  brow, 
Scarce  deigned  he  look  upon  the  village-girls 
In  holiday  attire  ;  —  nay,  scarcely  paused 
Before  the  waterfall,  our  hamlet's  pride, 
That  many  a  foreign  artist  comes  to  view. 
The  band,  dividing,  passed  to  either  side, 
And  from  the  ranks  moved  Leonore  alone, 
To  the  majestic  measure  that  she  loves. 
White  were  her  garments,  white  her  twisted  scarf, 
And  white  the  flowers  that  garlanded  her  brow, 
Proclaiming  her  the  hamlet's  maiden-queen. 

EDWARD. 

0,  I  have  often  seen  her  thus.     And  he  ? 
Did  this  arrest  him  ? 


10  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

JACQUES. 

Such  a  sudden  spark 
Woke  in  his  eye,  it  grew  a  flash,  a  flame, 
A  thought,  a  purpose,  and  a  destiny. 
I  saw  his  breathing  to  her  steps  keep  time. 
Unconscious  she,  —  her  movement  mastered  him. 
So  gazed  he,  'ware  of  naught  on  earth  beside, 
Drunk  with  her  beauty,  till  she  stopped  to  rest, 
And  turning,  saw  him.  — 

EDWARD. 

Saw,  but  heeded  not  ? 

JACQUES. 

Surprised  to  stillness,  with  a  sudden  shock, 
As  seeing  one  foreshadowed  in  a  dream, 
She  stood,  intense  and  tremulous  ;  a  blush 
(The  only  element  her  beauty  lacks), 
Reddened  like  sunset;  from  her  fair  white  brow 
To  the  soft  limits  of  her  virgin  vest. 
'T  was  but  a  moment,  — pale  and  recomposed, 
She  launched  an  ice-bolt  from  her  scornful  eyes, 
And  swift,  but  stately,  vanished  from  the  scene. 

EDWARD. 

0,  happy  pride  !  0,  rescue  sent  of  Heaven  ! 
She  's  safe  !     Those  eyes  have  deadly  weaponry. 

JACQUES. 
Be  not  too  sure.     The  peril  is  not  past. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  11 

She  wears  the  vizard  of  her  maidenhood 
Haughtily  close,  I  grant  you  ;  but  her  heart 
May  prove  the  traitor  in  the  citadel. 

EDWARD. 

Proceed.     IIow  looked  the  stranger  when  she  left  ? 
In  gloom  or  anger  ? 

JACQUES. 

He  was  still,  and  smiled  ; 
The  languid  features  showed  a  new  intent. 
Beckoning  his  servant  with  a  lordly  gest, 
He  briefly  said,  "  We  go  not  hence  to-night." 

EDWARD. 
And  then  ? 

JACQUES. 

0,  then  I  know  not  what  befell. 
Soon  he  was  seen  at  Leonora's  side, 
Close  as  her  shadow ;  —  nay,  we  see  her  not 
Without  him.     In  the  shelter  of  her  cottage 
They  pass  snug  days,  of  which  the  world  knows 

naught 

Save  the  perpetual  hum  of  lovers'  voices. 
And  now  and  then  two  heads  that  come  to  view, 
Touching  almost,  within  the  vine-clad  window. 
He  has  taught  her  foreign  music,  foreign  ways, 
Unknown  among  our  mountains  :  daintier  work 
Has  put  to  shame  the  wholesome  spinning-wheel. 


12  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Books,  too,  they  have,  —  plays,  novels   and   such 

trash. 
Her  table  feeds  him,  and  when  day  is  done,  — 

EDWARD. 
She  surely  does  not  wander  forth  alone  ? 

JACQUES. 

No,  not  alone  —  his  escort  never  fails. 

EDWARD. 

0,  strange  imprudence  !     0,  ill-counselled  girl ! 
How  stands  she  scathless  from  the  village  gossips  ? 

JACQUES. 

They  're  nursing  scandal  that  will  soon  take  wing 
And  fly  abroad,  croaking  its  evil  tale. 
The  time  's  not  come  ;  he  has  not  left  her  yet. 

EDWARD. 

There  's  an  abyss  of  woe  !     Yes,  he  must  leave  her ! 
Who  shall  stand  up  to  be  her  savior  then  ? 
I  've  seen  fair  women  tread  those  dangerous  ways, 
Snatching  the  flowers  that  hide  the  fatal  pit ;  — 
But  thou,  my  Leonora  ? 

JACQUES. 

It  grows  late, 
And  supper  waits. 

EDWARD. 

He  thinks  upon  his  meat ! 
Good  Jacques,  go  before  me  to  the  inn, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  13 

I  '11  seek  you  there  anon,  and  make  amends 
For  present  dulness,  by  some  tales  of  travel, 
Enlivened  by  a  friendly  cup  of  wine  ;  — 
I  would  remain  a  moment  here  alone. 

JACQUES  (going). 
Edward,  they  're  very  like  to  come  this  way. 

EDWARD. 

Well  —  let  them  come  —  I  'm  now  beyond  surprise. 

(Exit  JACQUES.) 

SCENE  II. 

EDWARD. 

He  knew  not  that  his  words  were  murderous, 
Else,  surely,  he  had  not  plunged  back  the  steel 
To  widen  out  the  ghastly  wound  he  made. 

(Looks  around  him.) 

I)ark  days  of  absence,  comforted  with  hope 
Faithful  and  fervent,  —  waking,  sleeping  dreams, 
Enfolding  one  fair  vision,  — longing  thoughts 
Intensified  by  distance,  struggling  ever 
Back  to  the  charmed  limits  of  her  life, 
The  rustic  haunts  that  she  made  beautiful,  — 
Was  this  the  end  ye  led  to  ?     Even  this. 
0,  swift  and  sudden  sorrow !     Leonora 
Lost,  —  grant  it  Heaven  !  —  not  to  herself,  but  me. 
The  very  heart  of  innocent  delight 


14  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Plucked  out  and  trampled  by  a  love  profane  ! 
She  was  not  mine,  —  true,  true  ;  what  was  I  then 
To  claim  her  ?     An  unmannered,  blushing  boy, 
That  durst  not  lift  my  looks  or  thoughts  to  her, 
Till  the  voice  said,  "  Go  forth  and  win  renown  ! 
Thou  hast  gifts  to  gather  glory  —  use  them  well. 
When  all  men  praise  thee,  she  may  turn  her  eyes, 
Those  fairest  eyes,  upon  thee,  and  discern, 
Not  angrily,  thy  merit  in  thy  love." 
Fired  with  this  thought  I  took  the  pilgrim's  staff, 
Following  the  lofty  dream  with  breathless  steps  ; 
I,  who  had  been  content  in  lowliness  ! 
Nor  have  I  stayed  for  pleasure  or  repose, 
Such  restless  need  has  urged  me  to  this  hour,  — 
This  hour,  the  goal  of  striving  and  success,  — 
This  hour,  that  smites  success  with  emptiness. 
But  I  hear  voices,  —  no,  we  must  not  meet  ; 
This  rock  shall  spare  them  an  unwelcome  sight. 

(Hides  behind  a  rock.} 


SCENE  III.  —  Enter  LOTHAIR  and  LEONORA. 

LEONORA. 

How  soft  the  shadows  gather  in  our  train, 
Holding  the  dead  Day's  pall,  while  we  go  forth, 
Bearing  heart-incense  for  her  funeral ! 


THE    WORLD  S    OWN.  11 

This  was  a  day  on  whose  enamelled  brow 
No  marring  break  of  separation  came  ; 
One  golden  web  of  happiness  she  wove  ; 
Wherefore,  God  rest  thee,  gentle  Day  —  sleep  well ! 

LOTHAIR. 

And  this,  the  very  charmed  twilight  hour, 
When  pilgrim  Love,  his  finger  on  his  lips, 
Binds  all  to  mystery. 

LEONORA. 
Shall  we  rest  here  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

A  little  further. 

LEONORA. 

You  are  still  the  guide, 

Leading,  each  day,  to  joys  undreamed  before. 
Into  the  sunset's  fiery  heart  we  fly, 
As  in  the  rose  the  bee  for  ravishment. 
I  know  not  places,  when  I  walk  with  you  ; 
I  only  know  they  are  no  earthly  ways 
We  tread  together. 

LOTHAIR. 

Yet  my  Leonore 

At  sudden  fancies  stays  her  pretty  steps, 
Like  to  a  tricksome  steed  that  feigns  alarm 
When  he  is  fro  ward. 


16  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LEONORA. 

Nay,  I  do  not  feign  ; 
I  love  the  light ;  the  very  blaze  of  noon 
Frights  not  my  courage  ;  on  my  hardy  brow 
It  lays  a  blessing  and  a  kiss  at  once. 
So  dear  I  prize  it,  I  could  walk  abroad, 
Were  you  so  minded,  through  the  market-place, 
With  dauntless  presence,  saying  to  the  world, 
Behold  Lothair,  —  behold  my  love  for  him, 
That  seeks  its  sanction  in  the  face  of  Heaven  ! 

LOTHAIR. 

Hush  !  hush  !  fair  child  ;  that  is  no  more  to  seek  ; 
The  heavens  attest  the  love  I  bear  you,  listening 
To  God's  high  name  invoked  ;  th'  attendant  stars 
Give  countenance  to  nuptials  of  the  heart 
Where  other  priesthood  were  profanity. 

( Giving  a  ring. ) 

This  jewel  shall  record  for  thee  my  vows 
Beyond  the  power  of  distance  or  of  doubt. 
Wearing  it,  thou  becom'st  my  gentle  thrall, 
Bounden  to  follow  where  thy  master  bids. 

LEONORA. 

Blest  in  obedience,  when  the  word  is,  follow ! 
Though  through  hell's  tortures  led  the  burning  way  ; 
The  fear  were,  you  might  stay  my  eager  steps 
With  the  cold  ban  of  separation. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  17 

Ev'n  then  I  would  be  dutiful  till  death, 

And  keep  my  faith  unbroken  to  the  end. 

But  we  '11  not  think  of  that,  Friend,  Lover,  Master  ! 

Why,  Master  seems  the  crowning  name  of  all, 

As  you  pronounce  it ;  —  so,  command  your  slave, 

Only  remembering  that  she  yields  to  you, 

For  faultless  guidance,  all  she  owes  to  God ! 

(Exeunt,  he  leading  the  way.) 


SCENE   IV. 

EDWARD  (coming  from  his  concealment). 
I  did  not  think  t'  have  heard  their  stolen  words, 
That  stamp  my  sorrow  beyond  remedy ! 
But  now  my  course  is  plain ;  an  orphan  she, 
Brotherless,  friendless  ;  I  must  urge  her  right 
With  this  fine  wooer  ;  she  shall  be  his  wife, 
Or  he  must  try  my  weapon  ere  he  sleeps, 
And  this  shall  be  Love's  crowning  sacrifice. 
Still,  still,  my  heart !  this  only  can  avail. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE    V.— Enter  BERTHA. 

BERTHA. 

I  've  heard  enough  !     If  lost  indeed  be  lost, 
Why  need  I  follow  further  for  their  hurt  ? 
2 


18  THE    WORLD'S    OWN. 

'T  is  no  mean  pleasure,  certainly,  to  spin 

A  rival's  ruin  from  her  smiling  lips, 

Snatching  Love's  silver  cord  to  strangle  her. 

Yet  this  delights  me  most,  that  I  was  there, 

Breaking  the  charmed  circle  of  their  love, 

When  least  they  deemed  this  possible  ;  the  veil 

Was  lifted  from  their  hearts,  and  I,  their  foe, 

Stood  near,  to  profit  by  their  confidence. 

Whatever  mischief  I  may  bring  to  pass, 

This  shall  sting  deepest — this  give  deadliest  wound  ; 

Thus  from  her  very  bosom  I  shall  pluck, 

Warm  with  her  breath,  the  crimson  flower  of  shame 

That  crowns  my  triumph  with  her  infamy. 

(Exit  BERTHA.) 


SCENE   VI.  —  A  Room  in  the  Inn.     Various  tables  are  about ; 
at  one  of  which  are  seated  EDWARD  and  JACQUES,  with  wine, 

JACQUES. 

You  sit  uneasily,  and  have  not  drunk 
One  manly  measure  since  the  wine  was  brought. 
For  shame  !  fill  up  the  beaker ;  clear  your  brow ; 
So  much  for  mere  good-fellowship ;  —  to  drink 
With  an  old  comrade,  ay,  a  friend  of  youth, 
Looking  as  if  the  very  hangman  pledged  you  I 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  19 

EDWARD. 

Pardon,  good  Jacques  ! 

JACQUES. 

Pardon  I  '11  accord 
Only  to  better  conduct.     You  forget 
You  promised  to  beguile  this  evening  hour 
With  copious  annals  of  these  sumptuous  years 
Passed  in  the  gold-and-purple  lap  of  Rome. 
EDWARD  (rising  and  lifting  his  cap). 
You  touch  a  theme  most  fervent  in  my  thoughts. 
I  must  be  worn  and  wasted  out  of  life 
When  I  respond  not  to  that  sacred  name. 

(Reseating  himself.) 

Though  not  the  gold  and  purple  of  the  robe 
Enchant  the  eyes  devout  that  worship  Beauty. 
The  splendors  you  would  name  were  irksome  to  me, 
As  guests  that  stay  when  you  would  be  alone 
With  one  you  love.  (Still  run  my  thoughts  on  that  ?) 
For  those  that  seek  them,  Rome  has   pomps  and 

shows, 

And  men  may  play  the  villain  or  the  child 
Before  her,  with  majestic  sufferance  ; 
To  them  that  love  her,  she  unfolds  her  heart, 
Calm  with  the  mighty  sorrow,  greatly  borne. 
Yet  oft,  from  Contemplation's  higher  ground, 
I  Ve  stooped  to  see  the  garish  multitude  ; 


20  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

The  pontiff,  borne  behind  his  triple  crown, 
Ablaze  with  jewels,  fanned  with  costly  plumes 
Of  Indian  birds,  —  the  coffin  following 
Unseen,  but  close  and  certain,  while  a  crowd, 
That  loved  him  not,  did  heartless  reverence  ; 
And  men  whose  hope  of  power  must  pass  beyond 
His  deathbed,  gave  the  kiss  of  fealty, 
Caressing  in  the  gray,  decrepit  man, 
The  idol  each  has  longing  to  become. 
Such  devil's  service  do  the  lips  of  men 
When  the  heart  deigns  to  falsehood. 

On  mine  eyes 

Plashed  the  rude  torchlight  of  their  pageantry, 
Leaving  its  dazzle  only.     The  divine 
Mingles  no  whisper  with  these  pseans  loud  ; 
Flies,  startled,  to  congenial  solitudes, 
Where  marble  heroes  keep  the  pensive  grace 
Of  the  old  time,  that  stood  for  Deity  ; 
And  where,  immortal,  hang  upon  the  walls 
Th'  intenser  glories  of  Jerusalem. 
There,  in  a  labyrinth  of  high  delights 
I  wandered,  winding  Memory's  golden  thread, — 
There  my  weak  faith,  that  bound  and  bleeding  lay, 
Hose  free,  before  the  touch  of  Kaphae"!. 

JACQUES. 
Spoken  with  Southern  fervor,  on  my  word ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  21 

Your  diction  smacks  not  of  the  mountain  phrase 
Familiar  to  your  childhood. 

EDWARD. 

'T  is  the  theme 

Lends  finer  meaning  to  the  peasant's  tongue  ; 
But  while  we  talk  at  random,  it  grows  late, 

(Aside.) 
(And  Leonora's  lattice  shows  no  light.) 

(He  rises,  looks  at  the  clock,  goes  to  the  window.) 

JACQUES. 

Why  do  you  look  so  wildly  at  the  clock, 
And  at  the  silent  cottage  opposite  ? 
You  have  not  come  to  your  own  story  yet. 
Talk  further ;  tell  me  of  your  first  success. 

EDWARD  (resuming  his  seat). 
You  can  remember  when  I  drew  a  head 
In  charcoal,  on  a  whitewashed  village  wall  ? 
A  figure  followed  ;  then,  a  straggling  group  ; 
Then,  all  I  could  imagine,  till  men  traced 
My  ramblings  by  my  work. 

JACQUES. 

If  I  remember  ? 

Did  you  not  spoil  our  kitchen  in  those  days 
Just  newly  plastered,  with  a  chevalier 
In  armor,  squinting  every  way  at  once, 
For  which  you  fled,  my  father  at  your  back  ? 


22  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

EDWARD. 

And  you  behind  him,  pleading  loud  for  me  ?  — 

Well,  to  be  brief,  I  grew  a  sturdy  boy, 

That  would  not  tend  the  herds,  or  hunt  the  chamois  ; 

And  so  the  pastor  taught  me  as  he  could  ; 

But  toil  grew  needful  for  my  daily  bread, 

While  my  heart  sickened  to  give  up  its  dream, 

And  sink  to  sordid  cares  of  vulgar  life, 

Untried,  the  airy  footing  of  its  hope. 

So,  things  were  dim  before  me,  till  one  day 

A  stranger,  visiting  the  parsonage, 

Looked  at  my  sketches,  questioned  my  intent, 

Then  gave  a  purse,  and,  staying  not  for  thanks, 

Said,  "  Take  this  gold,  and  follow  art  in  Rome. 

If  you  are  diligent,  I  shall  be  paid  ; 

If  not,  this  ruins  neither  you  nor  me." 

I  have  been  diligent,  —  that 's  all  my  merit ; 

The  love,  the  aptitude,  were  nature's  gifts. 

This  year,  my  picture,  at  the  Academy, 

Drew  the  great  prize,  and  when  my  name  was  called, 

A  voice  behind  me  said,  "  I  am  repaid." 

I  turned  and  saw  th'  Unknown,  whose  generous  gift 

Unlocked  for  me  the  iron  doors  of  Fate  : 

But  now  he  wore  th'  insignia  of  his  rank, 

And  when  he  offered  me  his  princely  hand, 

From  the  pleased  crowd  approving  murmurs  came, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  28 

That  rose,  till  plaudits  blent  his  name  with  mine. 

(Aside. ) 

She  comes  not  yet,  and  I  am  idle  here  ! 
0,  could  I  rush  to  save  her  ! 

Enter  SERVANTS,  bearing  lights. 

Who  are  these  ? 
JACQUES. 

They  wait  upon  the  stranger,  who  returns 
At  easy  leisure  from  his  evening  ramble  ; 
Love  wanders  late,  they  say,  nor  fears  the  dark. 

( Yawning. ) 
I  judge  't  is  nigh  eleven  of  the  clock. 

EDWARD  (looking  towards  window). 
And  Leonora  lights  her  evening  lamp. 
0  dim,  uncertain  light !     Comes  he  this  way  ? 

JACQUES. 
Ay  ;  that  should  be  his  step. 

EDWARD. 

This  happens  well. 


SCENE  VII.  —  The  above.     Enter  LOTHAIR,  escorted  by  SER 
VANTS  with  lights. 

LOTHAIR  (to  SERVANTS). 
Bid  them  bring  supper  to  my  room,  and  wine. 

(Exit  SERVANTS.) 


24  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

EDWARD  (aside). 
What,  —  you  '11  carouse  ?     I  '11  bear  you  company. 

(Rising,  and  accosting  LOTHAIR.) 
A  word  with  you,  sir  ! 

LOTHAIR  (haughtily). 

I  am  not  at  leisure. 

If  you  have  business,  seek  my  servant  yonder. 
He  keeps  my  books. 

EDWARD. 

My  business  is  with  you. 
Sir,  you  walk  late. 

LOTHAIR  (commanding  himself). 
As  I  am  wont  to  do  ! 

EDWARD. 

And  in  good  company,  I  warrant  me  ! 

LOTHAIR. 

I  choose  my  own  companions,  and  endure 
None  others.     Stand  aside,  sir !     Let  me  pass  ! 

EDWARD. 

When  I  am  satisfied  I  '11  give  you  way, 
But,  by  my  faith  in  God,  no  moment  sooner. 
You  have  mysterious  habits,  noble  sir ! 
You  come  unquestioned,  and  depart  unknown  ; 
You  find  your  way  to  honest,  humble  roofs, 
And  palm  yourself  on  inexperienced  girls  ; 
And  if  the  fairest  should  be  fatherless, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  25 

And  in  unguarded  beauty  dwell  alone, 
You  'd  violate  her  maiden  sanctity, 
And  bring  dishonoring  ruin  on  her  head. 
That 's  what  I  think  of  you  ! 

LOTHAIK. 

What  gives  you  right 
T"  insult  me  thus  ?     Detain  me  at  your  peril ! 

EDWARD. 

A  moment  longer.     You  were  best  give  ear ; 
One  reparation  lies  within  your  power,  — 
The  right  to  bear  your  name,  whate'er  it  be,  — 
Give  it ;  —  you  have  no  choice  but  infamy. 

LOTHAIB. 

Upon  my  word,  this  passes  sufferance ! 
I  '11  hear  no  more.     Your  hand  upon  my  cloak  ? 
Nay,  have  it  then  ;  there  's  for  your  insolence ! 
Carlo!  (Calls.) 

EDWARD  (drawing  his  rapier). 
A  blow !     Draw,  coward  !  for  your  life. 
We  '11  try  the  issue  thus  !     Heaven  help  the  right ! 

LOTHAIR. 

I  '11  not  cross  weapons  with  a  village  brawler, 
Nor  perish  vilely  by  his  hand. 

( Going  to  the  ivindmo. ) 

What,  ho  ! 
Help,  friends !     I  am  attacked.     Here  's  treachery  1 


26  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

EDWARD. 

None  but  your  own,  you  villain  !     Draw,  I  say ! 

LOTH  AIR  (draws,  but  retreats). 
Where  are  my  servants  ? 

JACQUES. 

Edward,  are  you  mad  ? 

EDWARD. 

I  'd  have  his  life-blood,  though  my  mother  stood 
Covering  his  caitiff  body  with  her  own  ! 

(EDWARD  makes  a  deadly  pass  at  LOTHAIR.  LEONORA 
leaps  in  at  the  window,  in  her  night-dress,  and 
rushes  between  the  combatants  with  a  shriek. ) 

LEONORA. 
Ah,  I  have  saved  him  ! 

(  Turning  to  EDWARD,  and  pointing  to  her  breast. ) 

Here,  strike  here,  good  friend  ! 
He 's  safe  ;  I  have  no  further  need  of  life. 
Lothair,  they  have  not  harmed  you  ? 

EDWARD. 

Leonore  ! 

LEONORA. 

What,  Edward  ?  thou,  my  friend,  my  friend  of  youth, 
TV  assassin,  who  would  take  my  life  in  his  ? 
This  is  too  much  !     Put  up  your  luckless  sword. 
I  see,  you  knew  not  that  I  loved  this  man  ; 
Some  sudden  passion  moved  you,  on  some  point 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  2t 

Of  that  strange  lunacy  that  men  call  honor. 
I  can  forgive  you.     I  will  make  your  peace. 
You  will  not  ?     0,  be  sure,  then,  you  shall  wound 
The  saints  in  heaven,  within  God's  crystal  armor, 
Ere  you  attain  him,  shielded  by  my  love  ! 

EDWARD. 

I  have  no  heart  to  harm  the  meanest  thing 
Your  love  could  rest  upon.    'T  was  for  your  sake,  — 
Yours  only. 

LEONORA. 

For  my  sake  depart  in  peace ! 
This  is  no  time  for  further  speech.     To-morrow 
You  shall  explain  this  foolish  fray  ;  and  I, 
Whom  most  it  wrongs,  will  promise  to  forgive. 

EDWARD. 

I  have  an  explanation  to  demand, 

Before  I  offer  one. 

LOTHAIR. 

Make  good  your  claim, 
And  I  will  not  be  wanting. 

LEONORA. 

What !  —  no  more. 

Edward,  there  lies  your  way.     I  '11  follow  straight. 
(JACQUES  draius  EDWARD  aivay,  at  the  same  moment 
LEONORA  resls  on  the  shoulder  of  LOTHAIR.     A 
noise  of  people  is  heard,  and  lights  appear  be 
hind  the  scenes. ) 


28  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

JACQUES. 

Edward,  the  house  is  rising  in  alarm  ; 
Let  us  avert  the  scandal  of  this  scene 
Before  your  quarrel  grow  the  village  talk. 

(To  LEONORA.) 

My  pretty  one,  this  is  no  place  for  you. 
Come  home  with  us. 

LEONORA. 

I  stay  but  for  a  word. 

Lothair,  this  evening  might  have  been  our  last ! 
0,  thought  beyond  all  tears  !     Look  in  these  eyes, 
These  eyes  to  which  thou  art  the  universe, 
And  say  we  meet  to-morrow  ! 

LOTHAIR. 

Do  not  doubt. 
Surely,  we  meet. 

LEONORA. 

So  sits  my  heart  at  rest, 
Serenely  anchored ;  never  storm  can  rise 
To  shake  its  peace,  while  thou  dost  harbor  it. 
We  meet  to-morrow.     I  shall  dream  till  then, 
Dream  of  thy  voice,  and  sleep  as  on  thy  breast. 
Good-night.     Leonora's  angel  stays  with  thee  ! 
To-morrow  ! 

LOTHAIR  (looking  suddenly  in  her  eyes,  and  holding 
her  hand). 

Ay,  to-morrow,  fare  thee  well  1 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  29 

(EDWARD    and    JACQUES     take    LEONORA    forcibly 
away. ) 

SCENE  VIII.  —  BONIFACE,  SERVANTS,  LOTHAIR. 

BONIFACE. 

What  is  the  matter  ? 

SERVANT  (to  LOTHAIR). 
Are  you  hurt,  my  lord  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

How  durst  you  loiter  when  you  heard  me  call  ? 

SERVANT. 

I  was  alone,  and  stayed  to  gather  help. 

LOTHAIR. 

You  come  when  need  is  passed,  —  a  coward  knave 
That  saves  his  own  throat  first.     Nay,  I  '11  not  strike 

you; 

The  hangman  should  do  that.     Go  to  my  room  ! 
See  that  you  render  better  service  there, 
Or  dread  the  reckoning.     So,  good  Boniface, 
These  are  your  country  manners,  fair  and  simple. 
A  quiet  traveller  seeks  his  inn  at  night, 
And  is  insulted, — what  say  I  ?  —  attacked 
With  ready  weapons,  —  threatened  for  his  life  ! 

BONIFACE. 

A  gentleman  assaulted  in  my  house  ? 


30  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

I  've  been  an  innkeeper  these  thirty  years, 
And  never  seen  the  like  !     You  are  not  hurt  ? 

LOTHAIR. 
I  thank  you,  —  no. 

BONIFACE. 
1 

What  daring  man  was  this 
That  set  upon  you  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

I  should  ask  you  that. 
Two  brigands,  with  their  faces  half  concealed. 

BONIFACE. 

Brigands,  assassins,  in  our  quiet  village  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

One  finds  them  everywhere.     You  see,  they  leapt 
In  at  the  window. 

BONIFACE. 

On  my  life,  'tis  true  ! 
I  must  alarm  the  hamlet. 

LOTHAIR. 

Let  them  go. 

They  had  the  worst  of  it,  I  promise  you. 
'T  is  ill  to  hunt  such  gentry  in  the  dark  ; 
They  have  one  at  advantage. 

BONIFACE. 

Very  true ; 
But  I  '11  report  this  matter  to  the  judge. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  31 

LOTHAIR. 

To-morrow  !     No  one  loses  time,  you  know, 
By  taking  it.     Be  vigilant  with  bolt 
And  bar.     I  '11  close  this  friendly  window  up 
That  lent  such  invitation  to  the  rogues. 

( Closes  window.) 

Take  heed  no  further,  honest  Boniface. 
D'  ye  know  a  youth  called  Edward  ? 
BONIFACE. 

If  I  know  him  ? 

One  of  our  own  ;  a  quiet  youth  enough, 
Before  he  left  us. 

LOTHAIR. 

Wherefore  did  he  go  ? 
BONIFACE. 

He  thought  himself  above  his  father's  lot. 
An  artist  would  he  be,  —  a  gentleman  ; 
And  some  rich  man  (a  greater  fool  than  he, 
For  all  his  money)  gave  him  means  thereto. 
What  of  him  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Nothing.     Did  you  tell  me  where 
He  learned  his  art  ?     I  have  forgot. 

BONIFACE. 

In  Rome. 


32  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

They  say  that  he  consorts  with  noblemen. 
Could  he  molest  my  lord  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

No,  no, — not  he. 
Good  host,  it  may  be  I  shall  send  for  you. 

BONIFACE. 

I  'm  always  wakeful  to  your  lordship's  will ; 
Meantime  I  take  my  leave. 

LOTHAIR. 

Good-night,  good  friend 


SCENE   IX. 

LOTHAIR    (solus). 

This  foolish  tangle  must  be  cut  at  once, 

Ere  life  and  limb  draw  after.  ( Goes  to  window.) 

Leonore I 

There  lies  she,  'neath  yon  lattice,  where  so  oft 
The  summer  wind  has  sped  our  mutual  sighs, 
Freighted  for  love's  sweet  commerce ;  —  from  my  eyes 
Thick  walls  conceal  her  ;  but  my  daring  thought 
O'erleaps  the  bounds  of  slumber's  sacredness, 
To  seize  her  as  she  lies.     Her  shadowy  hair, 
Flinging  its  wild  delights  from  brow  to  breast, 
While  the  fair  arms  are  twin-enclasped  above, 
In  such  repose  as  lends  its  thrill  to  marble. 


THE    WORLD  S    OWN.  33 

Sleep  holds  the  high-strung  frame  in  mastery ; 
But  I  command  him.     Not  of  childish  joys 
Thou  dreamest,  longing  for  thy  mother's  breast, 
Nor  of  thy  beauty's  virgin  festivals. 
Lo  I  the  magician  smites  the  crystal  doors, 
Ceases  the  hymn,  and  in  the  mirror  clear 
The  mystic  angels  vanish.     Innocence 
Dissolves,  a  pearl,  in  Passion's  fervent  cup. 
By  Heaven,  a  costly  draught  for  queenlike  lips, 
That,  peace  contemning,  offer  life  for  love, 
And  close  on  all  thereafter !    Perish  thus 
The  cold  to-morrow  of  a  day  like  this  ! 

(He  walks  up  and  down  in  agitation;  then  more 

calmly. ) 

Hold  fast  the  visioned  sweetness,  Leonore  ! 
Thou  hast  sipt  the  goblet  at  its  brim.     Not  I, 
But  Fate,  conceals  the  poison  in  the  dregs. 
Nay,  never  chide  me,  't  was  thy  will,  thy  will. 
Thy  beauty  spread  its  banner  to  the  sun  ; 
I  passed,  and  it  stood  there  to  challenge  me. 
Unequal  combat  followed,  —  not  for  thee 
The  odds  ;  for  thee  nor  rescue,  nor  repair. 
Yield  thee  ;  the  conquered  from  the  conqueror's  eyes 
Claims  the  unwonted  tribute  of  a  tear. 

(Curtain  fatts.) 
3 


ACT     SECOND. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Bedroom  in  LEONORA'S  Cottage.     A  bed  with 
drawn  curtains.     Enter  KATCHEN  (on  tiptoe). 

KATCHEN. 

SHE  slumbers  late,  poor  child  !     The  morning  meal 
Grows  cold  with  waiting  ;  here  's  a  letter,  too, 
That  came  an  hour  ago.     She  shall  not  see  it 
Till  she  has  prayed,  and  dressed,  and  broken  fast. 

(Hides  letter  in  her  bosom.) 
Ev'n  lovers  must  be  fed  ;  and  I  've  observed 
That,  has  she  but  a  billet  from  his  hand, 
She  will  not  eat,  nor  speak,  nor  hear  me  speak  ; 
But  wanders,  like  a  creature  in  a  dream, 
And,  looking  at  me  with  those  great,  fixed  eyes, 
Sees,  Heaven  knows  what  —  not  anything  that  is. 
Ah,  me  !   those  eyes  —  those  eyes  !     I  've  seen  of 

late 

A  thousand  signs  that  bode  no  good.     Well,  well, 
Would  she  but  take  my  counsel,  —  talk  of  that !  — 
Would  I  take  hers,  could  we  but  change  in  age 

(34) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  35 

And  circumstance  ?     I  cannot  swear,  forsooth  ! 
Edward 's  returned,  —  true-hearted,  faithful  Edward  ; 
I  always  praised  him  to  my  wayward  girl. 
But  she,  —  there  is  a  fate  in  likings,  too, 
An  ill  one,  sometimes.     All  may  yet  be  well. 
Meanwhile  my  slow  affection  waits  to  help, 
Should  the  far  need  I  dare  not  think  of,  come. 

LEOXORA  (pushing  back  the  curtains). 
Where  am  I  ?     Is  this  waking  ?     Did  I  sleep  ? 
0,  not  if  slumber  be  forgetfulness. 
My  dreams  but  shadowed  out  my  daily  thought, 
And  that  which  makes  my  being,  since  its  end 
Was  given.    Forbid  it,  God  !  that  sleep  should  come 
So  deep  that  I  could  let  his  image  drop, 
And  lose  the  sacred  nearness  he  has  sworn 
To  make  eternal.     Death  itself  hath  not 
This  power ;  since  death  brings  heaven,  and  heaven 

must  give 
His  presence,  or  be  forfeit  to  my  faith. 

(Looking  at  the  ring.) 

What  's  this  ?     The  crystal  prison  of  a  smile  ? 
Love's  fervor,  looking  from  a  thousand  eyes 
In  one  ?     Nay,  more,  —  the  gem  that  makes  me  his, 
Bound,  as  a  shining  seal,  upon  my  hand  ; 
Lothair  has  brought  me  many  a  precious  flower, 
Whose  dead  delight  is  woven  in  my  life, 


36  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

But  when  he  swore  undying1  love,  his  pledge 

Was  this  immortal  emblem.  (Kisses  it.) 

Katchen  here  ? 

Good-morrow.     Do  not  plague  me  with  thy  break 
fast  ; 

I  am  full,  and  would  not  eat.     But  hast  thou  not 
A  morsel  I  could  greedily  devour  ? 
A  letter  —  not  a  letter  ?     Give  it  me  ? 

KATCHEN  (shaking  her  head). 
I  have  new  milk,  with  the  fresh  morning  in  it, 
The  cakes,  and  curds,  and  hill-side  strawberries  ; 
If  you  ask  more,  you  're  but  a  froward  child, 
And  cannot  be  indulged.     I  've  spread  it  out 
I'  the  garden-porch,  where  best  you  love  to  sit. 

LEONORA. 

Yes,  we  have  held  some  merry  banquets  there, 
Lothair  and  I,  and  thou  didst  serve  us  well. 
Dost  thou  remember  when  he  brought  the  wine, 
The  costly  foreign  wine,  so  full  of  fire, 
And  drank  it  to  my  praise  ?     So  kind  he  shared 
Our  simple  pleasures,  and  our  humble  fare,  — 
And  he  a  creature  of  another  world, 
A  thing  to  walk  on  sunbeams  !     Do  I  speak 
As  if  these  things  were  past,  when  he  shall  come 
To  bring  the  benediction  of  the  day 
Before  his  wont,  and  shame  his  messenger '( 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  31 

So,  —  help  me  dress  ;  give  me  the  gown  he  chose  ; 
Lace  quick  the  bodice  ;   smooth  this  tangled  hair, 
And  I  '11  wear  roses  in  it.     0,  my  white  ones  ! 
How  did  I  crush  them  ? 

KATCHEN. 

Marry,  in  your  sleep 
You  held  them. 

LEONORA. 

Bring  me  others,  —  not  like  these  ; 
The  red  shall  blossom  in  my  hair  to-day, 
With   warmer   meaning.      Haste,   be    quick,   good 

Katchen ! 

A  day  has  but  so  many  hours  in  all. 
What  if  he  came  at  once,  and  I  should  lose 
Some  precious  moments  of  his  company  ?  — 
It  is  no  day  till  I  have  seen  Lothajr ! 

(A  loud  knock  below.) 
Who  knocks  ?     Look  out,  dear  Katchen  !  is  it  he  ? 

KATCHEN  (going  to  the  window). 
'T  is  Bertha. 

LEONORA. 

An  ungracious,  envious  girl  1 
And  never  more  unwelcome  than  to-day. 

KATCHEN. 

She  has  her  comrades  with  her. 

LEONORA. 

That  is  strange ; 


38  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

They  should  be  busy  at  their  wheels  ere  this. 
Tell  her  I  will  not  see  her. 

KATCHEN. 

Be  advised, 
Do  her  no  slight.     I  '11  say  you  're  coming  straight. 

LEONORA. 
If  you  will  have  it  so,  —  I  '11  wait  on  them. 

(Exit  KATCHEN.) 

And  I  must  braid  my  hair  without  the  flowers  ! 
Well,  they  will  be  the  fresher  when  he  comes  ; 
That 's  well,  at  least.  — 

KATCHEN    (without). 

Stay,  she  '11  be  down  forthwith. 

BERTHA    (without). 

She  need  not  be  so  formal  with  her  friends  ; 
We  're  bound  to  save  her  ladyship  these  steps. 
Nay,  —  stand  aside,  —  we  will  come  in. 

LEONORA. 

What  means  this  ? 


SCENE    II.  —  The  above.     Enter  BERTHA  and  companions. 

LEONORA. 

Good-morrow,  Bertha  ;  would  you  aught  with  me  ? 

BERTHA. 

Our  homage,  gracious  countess,  we  would  pay, 
And  ask,  how  doth  your  precious  health  to-day  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  39 

LEONORA. 

Why,  I  am  well.    What  mean  these  words  of  yours  — 
These    mocking    looks  ?       Why   do    you    call    me 
countess  ? 

BERTHA. 

Such  is  your  worthy  title,  we  infer, 
After  those  sacred  nuptials  of  the  heart, 
At  which  the  priest,  indeed,  did  not  attend, 
Having  good  cause  for  absence,  —  as  I  judge  ! 
The  bridal  ring,  see,  girls  !  upon  her  finger. 
That  is  a  troth-ring  for  a  village  maid, 
A  school  prize  for  the  first  in  modesty. 
Pardon,  your  virtuous,  blushing  excellence  ! 
We  '11  call  you  Countess,  Duchess,  Paragon, 
Whatever  your  la'ship  pleases  ;  but  henceforth 
We  please  to  keep  no  company  with  you. 

LEONORA. 

I  stand  amazed  at  these  injurious  words. 
Dare  you  insult  me  thus  ?     And,  if  you  dare, 
What  moves  your  malice  to  break  out  on  me 
Who  never  wronged  you  ?    These,  my  village  mates, 
Are  they  come  here  to  cast  their  jibes  upon 
An  unoffending  comrade  ?     Loulou,  Blanche, 
Susanne,  are  you  become  my  enemies  ? 
I  thought  you  loved  me. 

GIRLS. 

Bertha  speaks  for  us. 


40  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LEONORA. 

Nay,  take  your  miserable  pleasure  then  ; 
I  leave  it  for  the  meanest.     Yet,  be  sure, 
I  have  a  friend  whose  watchful  love  and  zeal 
Shield  me  from  outrage.     Vex  me  not  too  far, 
Or  he  may  answer. 

BERTHA. 

He  ?    How  brave  she  talks !  — 
He  's  gone ! 

LEONORA. 

Who  's  gone  ? 

BERTHA. 

Your  spiritual  spouse, 
Count,  duke,  or  devil. 

LEONORA  (to  herself). 

Do  I  heed  these  words  ? 

(To  BERTHA.) 

Bertha,  your  envious  heart  is  strong  in  hate, 
Weak  in  invention  —  he  is  close  at  hand. 

BERTHA. 

He  's  gone,  I  say ! 

LEONORA. 

They  want  to  make  me  mad, 
For  cruel  laughter ;  so,  I  will  not  rave. 

(To  them.) 
I  do  not  doubt  my  being,  person,  place, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  41 

Nor  that  my  usual  senses  help  my  thought ; 
Here  are  my  old  surroundings,  — here  myself; 
Yonder  's  the  sun,  that  stands  for  God  in  heaven, 
And  morning  clouds  that  do  him  reverence  ; 
The  trees,  the  waters  are  unchanged ;    't  is  there, 
The  glorious  world  I  walked  in,  yesterday. 
Xow,  if  there  's  truth  in  aught  that  I  discern, 
There  is  no  need  to  question.     He  's  not  gone  ! 

SUSANNE. 

My  father  's  master  of  the  post,  you  know  ; 
His  horses  left  at  daybreak. 

LEONORA. 

That  may  be. 
What  need  I  care  what  traveller  ordered  them  ? 

BERTHA. 

Perhaps  his  empty  chamber  at  the  inn, 
The  bed  unruffled,  would  confirm  your  faith. 

LEONORA  (suddenly}. 
His  chamber,  —  who  has  seen  it  ? 

BERTHA,  AND    GIRLS. 

All  of  us ! 

LEONORA. 

There  is  no  truth  in  this  ;   and  yet,  and  yet,  — 
I  cannot  live  until  it  be  disproved. 

BERTHA. 

She  changes  countenance. 


42  THE    WORLD  S    OWN. 

LEONORA. 

I  '11  seek  him  there, 
Or  anywhere,  to  rid  myself  of  you. 

BERTHA. 

Think  you  we  '11  stay  ?   We  would  not  miss  the  scene 
For  the  brave  diamond  in  your  wedding-ring ! 

LEONORA. 

Beware,  lest  shame  o'ertake  the  shameless  tongue  :  — 
Katchen,  I  cannot  tarry,  —  follow  me  !          (Exeunt.) 


SCENE  III.— A  Chamber  at  the  Inn.  A  bed  that  has  not 
been  slept  in;  various  marks  of  confusion, — papers  scattered 
about,  <5fc.  BONIFACE,  at  a  table  with  money,  etc. 

BONIFACE. 

I  care  not  what  the  man  may  be,  —  I  know 
His  gold  is  good,  and  he  right  free  withal ; 
No  haggling  at  the  price  of  wine  and  wax, 
Nor  hint,  nor  question,  —  paid  and  pocketed. 
Your  half-way  people  now,  Lord,  how  they  save 
Their  candle-ends,  and,  better  than  yourself, 
Can  count  you  every  morsel  you  have  served  ! 

(Looking  at  the  bill.} 

Come,  come,  old  Boniface,  if  things  go  on 
In  this  wise,  we  shall  have  our  daughter  portioned, 
Our  age  kept  warm  with  comfort,  as  is  right. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  43 

God  send  me  many  gentlemen  like  him !  — 
What  noise  is  that  without  ? 


SCENE  IV.  —  The  above.  Enter  LEONORA,  followed  by  BER 
THA  and  her  comrades.  LEONORA  stands  a  moment  and  looks 
around  her  in  surprise. 

BONIFACE. 

Well,  girls,  what  now? 
LEONORA  (to  BONIFACE). 
I  do  not  see  him.     Where  is. Count  Lothair  ? 

BONIFACE. 

What 's  that  to  you  ? 

LEONORA. 

Enough,  enough,  good  friend  I 
Say  where  he  is. 

BONIFACE. 

Why,  gone  where'er  he  likes, 
As  you  methinks  may  see.     This  was  his  room. 

LEONORA. 

Was  ?     What  an  idle  jest  is  this  !     (So,  so, 
Let  me  not  anger  him.)     So,  Boniface, 
Bertha  and  you  contrived  this  merry  trick,  — 
A  harmless  one,  that  cannot  ruffle  me. 
But  now,  if  you  and  she  have  laughed  enough, 
Be  kind,  and  tell  me,  whither  went  the  count. 


44  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

BONIFACE. 

A  trick,  indeed !     I  've  told  you  all  I  know, 
And  so  much  more  than  I  had  need.     He  's  gone  ; 
Whither,  and  wherefore,  you  must  ask  elsewhere. 

LEONORA. 
Here  's  money  for  thee  —  tell  me,  pray  thee,  tell ! 

BONIFACE. 

I  want  no  money,  and  have  naught  to  tell. 
Where  are  your  wits  ? 

BERTHA. 

They  left  her  when  he  came  ; 
Now  that  he 's  gone — who  knows  ? — they  may  return. 

LEONORA. 

0  !  ye  are  all  in  league  to  torture  me, 

Like  fiends,  who  know  how  falsehoods  vex  the  soul  1 

Enter  EDWAKD. 

BONIFACE. 

Well,  we  shall  hold  a  rural  chapter  here  ; 
The  syndic  next.    So,  will  you  go  in  peace  ? 
Or  must  I  hunt  this  hubbub  from  my  house  ? 

LEONORA. 

1  will  not  stir  until  I  know  the  truth, 
So,  Heaven  be  kind  to  me  I 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  45 

EDWARD. 

Leonora  here  ? 

I  sought  an  interview  with  Count  Lothair, 
Or  one  who  bears  that  name. 
BONIFACE. 

The  count  again ; 
He  left  at  daybreak. 

EDWARD. 

I  am  much  surprised  ; 
lie  promised  me  a  meeting. 

BONIFACE. 

Did  he  so  ? 
Well,  you  '11  not  meet  him  here  ! 

LEONORA. 

Is  this  a  dream, 
Or  truth,  that  breaks  with  lurid  glare  upon  me  ? 

(  Going  up  to  EDWARD  with  violence. ) 
You  had  your  weapon  at  his  throat,  last  night ; 
I  rushed  to  part  you ;  with  my  naked  breast 
1  shielded,  rescued  him  whose  life  is  mine  ; 
But  what  befell  when  I  was  there  no  more  ? 
Confess,  explain,  — his  blood  lies  at  your  door. 

EDWARD  (with  astonishment). 
His  blood  ? 

LEONORA. 

Say  how  you  did  it  ?    Where  ye  met  ? 


4:6  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Does  he  lie  bleeding  in  the  copsewood  yonder  ? 
Or  have  you  dug  his  grave  with  hasty  hands  ? 
0  where  ?    0  where  ? 

BERTH  A. 

'T  is  better  than  a  play  ! 

LEONORA. 

Say,  if  he  's  dead,  I  '11  leave  you  all  in  peace  ; 
Why  should  I  stay  to  plague  you  with  my  moan, 
Who  never  knew  such  sorrow  ?     I  '11  depart ; 

(To  EDWARD.) 

But  bid  them  lead  me  gently  to  the  spot, 
Where,  like  a  fallen  sun,  his  beauty  lies 
Veiled  in  the  death-cloud.     Ah,  I  see  it  now  ! 
I  see  him  dead  before  me ! 

EDWARD. 

Leonora  ! 

Am  I  condemned  to  speak  the  sentence  out 
That  renders  death  itself  a  boon  of  peace  ? 
He  lives— you  are  deserted  and  betrayed! 

BERTHA. 

Did  we  not  tell  you  so  an  hour  ago  ? 

But  she  is  struck  with  blinding  idiocy, 

And,  having  played  the  wanton,  plays  the  fool. 

BONIFACE. 

What  does  she  hold  by  ?    There  's  his  money  paid. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  4.7 

Trunks,  boxes,  servants,  all  are  packed  and  gone  ; 
So,  mistress,  let  us  make  an  end  of  this. 

KATCHEN  (suddenly'). 

Ah,  me,  that  letter  !     Come  with  me,  dear  child  ! 
Here  's  something  that  may  make  all  right. 

LEONORA. 

Give  here ! 

(Sfie  reads  it.) 

BERTHA. 

Look  at  her,  will  you  ?     See  those  eyes  of  hers, 
That  bloodless  face,  that  swol'n  vein  in  her  forehead. 
So,  Leonora,  you  believe  us  now  ? 

LEONORA. 

Believe  you?    Never!  (She falls.) 

EDWARD. 

Stand  back,  all  of  you ! 

(He  raises  her  head.  BERTHA  makes  a  gesture  of 
defiance.  KATCHEN  bends  over  her.  Scene 
changes.) 


SCENE    V.  —  The  Place  in  front  of the  Inn.    Various  youths 
and  maidens  in  groups,  as  if  conversing .     Enter  BERTHA. 

BERTHA. 

All  has  befallen  as  I  told  you,  boys ; 
Leonora  is  deserted  by  her  Count. 


48  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

She  slighted  you  and  all  of  us  for  him  ; 

So,  let  us  raise  a  friendly  voice  or  two 

To  speed  her  homeward  ;  —  rather,  let 's  unite 

To  hunt  her  from  our  village. 

FIRST   YOUTH. 

Where  is  she  ? 
BERTHA  (pointing  to  the  inn). 
Yonder,  — within.     She  fainted  ;  on  my  life 
She  had  need,  I  think.    Let 's  help  her  to  her  senses. 

(Sings.) 
"  Leonore,  come  to  the  door, 

Your  true-love  is  a-waiting, 
With  clerk  and  priest  for  nuptial  feast, 

And  we  to  see  your  mating." 
Join  in  the  chorus,  will  you  ? 

FIRST   YOUTH. 

Willingly. 

ALL    SING. 

"  With  clerk  and  priest  for  nuptial  feast, 
And  we  to  see  your  mating." 

BERTHA. 

Now  that  I  call  a  tolerable  song. 
I  made  it  on  the  moment. 

SECOND   YOUTH. 

Brava,  Bertha ! 
Hurra,  I  say,  for  Bertha  ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  49 

ALL. 

One  verse  more  I 

Enter  EDWARD. 
FIRST  YOUTH. 

Here  's  Edward ! 

EDWARD. 

Let  these  ribald  strophes  cease  ; 
They  outrage  decency. 

SECOND    YOUTH. 

Ho,  sirrah,  Edward ! 

We  '11  sing  as  long  as  suits  us,  and  as  loud. 
Why  should  our  song  disturb  you  ? 

EDWARD. 

Listen,  friends ! 

Within  those  walls  a  suffering  creature  waits, 
New-smit  with  sorrow  ;  let  her  pass  in  peace 
To  her  own  door.     So  much  I  ask  of  you. 

BERTHA. 

Think  not  that  she  shall  pass  without  our  greeting. 
Let  her  come  forth,  and  show  her  bridal-ring,  — 
The  ring,  — ho  I  ho  !  the  glistering  diamond  ring  ! 
Let 's  form  a  ring,  to  view  the  bridal-ring  ! 

( They  shout. ) 

A  ring  !  a  ring  !  to  view  the  bridal-ring ! 
EDWARD  (with  forced  calmness], 
I  know  the  goodness  of  your  hearts  belies 
4 


50  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

The  roughness  of  your  manners.     So,  good  friends, 
•  Depart  in  peace  ;  it  is  not  well  to  mock. 
The  evil  day  may  come  to  all  of  us. 

BERTHA    AND    OTHERS. 

There,  Parson  Edward,  you  have  preached  enough  ! 
The  music  's  better  suited  to  our  taste.       (Sings.) 
"  Whip,  spur,  and  gallop,  and  the  steed  's  away, 

The  steed  that  bore  her  lover. 
She  may  wait  for  him  ever  and  a  day  ; 
It  boots  not,  — courtship  's  over  !  " 
Now,  chorus  ! 

ALL    SING. 

"  Leonore,  come  to  the  door, 
And  keep  your  true-love  ever  more." 
(As  (hey  sing,  the  door  opens,  and  LEONORA  slowly 
emerges,  veiled,  and  leaning  upon  KATCHEN.    Th,ey 
form  a  ring  around  her. ) 

BERTHA. 

Take  off  that  veil,  —  let's  see  your  pretty  face. 
Don't  hide  your  maiden  blushes,  Innocence  ! 

(They  shout.) 
Off  with  the  veil,  or  it  shall  hang  in  tatters  ! 

EDWARD. 

Leonora,  fear  not !     I  '11  stand  up  for  you 
Against  the  world  !     Who  dares  impede  her  way, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  51 

Or  follow  her  with  one  injurious  word, 
Accounts  for  it  to  me. 

LEONORA  (lifting  her  veil). 

When  I  need  help, 

I  have  a  knee  to  bend,  a  voice  to  call, 
And  God  is  not  so  far  but  he  can  hear. 
I  thank  you,  Edward  ! 

( She  passes  out.     EDWARD  follows. ) 

FIRST    YOUTH. 

That 's  strange,  by  Jove  ! 

SECOND    YOUTH. 

He  was  her  lover  once. 

BERTHA 

Pitiful  soul !  his  suit  may  prosper  now. 

Good  luck  attend  your  wooing,  Signer  Edward ! 

( Tliey pair  off,  and  depart  in  confusion.) 


SCENE    VI.  —  The  same.     Enter  EDWARD. 

EDWARD. 

She  must  not  stay  for  further  insult  here. 
Best  she  departs  at  once.     Yet  whither  go, 
Since  disappointment  lies  along  her  way, 
And  the  grim  host,  at  ending,  is  Despair  ? 
I  '11  follow  at  a  distance',  for  defence 
And  counsel.     She  has  need  of  me,  although 


52  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Her  heart  is  rebel  to  the  thought.     That  need 

Makes  me  her  follower.     Why  did  they  mock, 

Those  cruel  ones,  because  I  shielded  her 

From  their  rude  pleasure  ?     Was  it  strange  that  I, 

Who  loved  her,  should  stand  up  to  plead  her  cause 

Against  the  brutal  judgment  of  the  crowd  ? 

Had  I  kept  back,  because  she  loved  me  not, 

Because  she  loved  a  wretch  who  sought  her  ruin, 

Because  the  evil  left  her  for  the  good 

To  help  and  cherish,  what  an  empty  name, 

A  thing  to  scoff  and  spit  upon,  were  love  ! 


SCENE  VII.  — LEONORA;  KATCHEN. 

KATCHEN. 

So,  they  have  fairly  chased  us  from  the  village  ! 

I  never  thought  to  see  this  evil  day.  ( Weeps. ) 

LEONORA. 

Stay  not  for  tears  ;  or,  if  thou  'rt  loth  to  go, 
Return,  and  let  me  take  my  way  alone. 

KATCHEN. 

Thou  know'st  I  cannot  choose  but  go  with  thee  ; 
Yet  leaving  on  this  wise  is  hard  indeed. 

LEONORA. 
Now,  Katchen,  I  must  hold  you  to  a  bond, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  53 

Or  you  shall  try  no  further  step  with  me. 
The  way  I  seek  is  swift  and  terrible  ! 
Faith,  with  its  fervent  passion,  hurries  me, 
Ev'n  as  it  blindly  guides  yon  flock  in  air, 
Whose  whitherward  is  known  to  God  alone. 
Can  you  be  strong  and  steadfast  ? 

KATCHEN. 

Help  of  Heaven 

Forsake  me  else  !  yet,  do  not  chide  the  thought,  — 
I  would  that  Edward  bore  us  company  ! 

LEONORA. 
Edward  ! 

KATCHEN. 

The  bravest,  faithfulest  of  friends. 

LEONORA. 

I  would  not  be  his  debtor. 

KATCHEN. 

Can  you  choose  ? 

Did  he  not  raise  you,  fainting,  in  his  arms  ? 
Did  he  not  silence  Bertha  and  her  crew, 
With  such  an  earnest,  valiant  countenance  ? 

LEONORA. 

Hush,  Katchen  !  never  speak  of  things  like  these. 
I  do  forbid  your  mention  of  this  day 
In  all  our  future  converse.     I  must  walk 
Without  a  weight  would  drag  me  down  to  hell. 


54  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

(Looking  towards  the  setting  sun.) 
My  way  lies  where  the  morning-red  is  clear ; 
Where  purple  shadows  stream  towards  golden  light, 
When  the  Day  gathers  up  his  wide-blown  robes 
For  the  cold  plunge  of  darkness.     I  shall  tread 
Where  angels  watch  that  spring-tide  flowers  may 

rise ; 

Rest  where  the  vestal  evening  trims  her  lamp 
For  prayer  and  offering  ;  all  the  loving  helps 
Of  nature  will  impel  me  towards  the  spot, 
The  goal  of  fate,  to  which  all  ways  must  lead,  — 
0,  towards  my  love  !    0,  Katchen,  towards  my  love  I 

KATCHEN. 

Doubt  not  that  God  shall  guide  us.     Let  us  go  ! 

(Exeunt  slowly,  LEONORA  leading  the  way.) 


SCENE  VIII.  —  A  Room  in  an  Inn. 

LOTHAIR. 

I  've  travelled  like  the  devil  in  a  storm, 
Leaving  this  folly  league  on  league  behind. 
Gods,  what  a  game  I  played  !     Was  this  for  me  ? 
A  man  who  sees  the  danger  in  the  pleasure, 
And  draws  the  fang  before  the  serpent's  head 
Rests  on  his  bosom  ?     Fie,  Lothair  !  Confess 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  55 

No  school-boy  could  have  done  a  wilder  thing. 
And  yet,  I  swear,  /  am  a  cautious  man ! 

(Goes  to  window.) 

A  tiresome  journey,  and  a  gloomy  night ; 

A  night  for  dreams  to  bring  those  troubles  back 

Our  will  holds  banished  from  our  waking  thought. 

Beside  my  bed,  last  night,  a  Fury  stood, 

Whose  stony  eyelids  nailed  me  where  I  lay, 

While  with  an  evil  smile  she  drew  a  blade, 

Red  from  her  heart,  and  held  it  aimed  at  mine. 

But,  as  I  waited  for  the  death-blow  fain, 

As  that  should  end  my  agony,  she  flung 

The  weapon  from  her  for  a  Lounce-like  spring ; 

And  with  wild  hands  about  my  neck,  and  shrieks 

More  wild,  more  dismal  than  the  ghosts  in  hell, 

She  dragged  me  down  a  bottomless  abyss, 

Whose  very  vacancy  seemed  sharp  with  pangs. 

I  woke  in  torment.   ,Bah  !  I  '11  dream  no  more  I 

Why  should  I,  when  there  's  better  to  be  done  ? 

Orsetti  's  here,  with  Huon  and  Alberto, 

And  other  nobles  ;  they  have  sent  for  me. 

I  am  not  merry,  — but  'tis  time  to  break 

This  sombre  web  that  suits  not  with  my  humor. 

So,  ye  distasteful  fantasies,  depart ! 

Here  's  for  gay  gossip,  and  a  night  at  cards  ; 

And  generous  wine,  the  princely  friend  of  man, 


56  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

That  helps  him,  like  a  father,  out  of  straits, 
With  such  a  twinkling,  swaggering  soberness. 
Back,  —  I  can  blow  you  backward  with  a  breath, 
Ye  owlet  brood !     Here 's  for  the  old  Lothair ! 

(Goes.) 


SCENE  IX.  —  An  Apartment  brilliantly  lighted.  In  the  further 
part  of  the  room  a  table  covered  with  ivines  and  fruits.  In 
front  a  smaller  one,  with  cards  and  dice.  At  the  latter  are 
seated  HUON  and  BERTO.  ORSETTI,  <SfC.,  stand  near.  LORENZO 
looks  on. 

HUON. 

Berto,  your  throw. 

BERTO. 

I  can  but  lose  again. 
What  shall  we  venture  ? 

HUON. 

Twenty  ducats  more. 

BERTO.  :'i_V. 

Nay,  I  'd  as  lief  risk  forty. 

HUON. 

As  you  will ; 
The  luck  is  mine  to-night. 

BERTO. 

Try  sixty,  then, 
For  better  fortune. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  5f 

(They  throw.) 
There  they  go  again, 

Here,  Hub'n,  take  the  purse,  and  pay  yourself, 
To  save  me  reckoning. 

HUON. 

What  a  careless  dog ! 

'Fore  Heaven  !  the  men  are  few  to  whom  I  'd  lend 
My  purse,  with  gold  uncounted. 

BERTO. 

I  've  a  tree, 

You  know,  upon  the  old  paternal  lands, 
That  bears  such  fruit  for  shaking. 

HUON. 

Have  a  care 

You  strip  it  not,  with  wasteful  husbandry  1 
Good  Berto,  nay,  I  'm  loth  to  cost  you  more  ; 
Let  the  dice  rest,  —  they  're  not  for  you  to-night. 

' BERTO. 

The  thought  is  pleasant,  that  a  paltry  sum 
Like  this,  could  make  a  faminte  in  my  coffers. 
Here 's  for  another  rattle  ! 

HCON. 

Here  's  Lothair. 


58  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

SCENE  X.  —  The  above.    LOTHAIR  enters. 

ALL. 

Welcome,  fair  Count ! 

LOTHAIR. 

Welcome  to  all  of  you  ! 
BERTO  (shaking  hands). 

'T  is  long  since  we  have  seen  you.     Tell  us,  now, 
Where  have  you  lain  perdu  this  blessed  time  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

These  thirty  days  of  midsummer  have  passed 
Ev'n  as  they  might,  with  one  whose  health  required 
A  country  regimen  and  mountain  air. 

HUON. 

Fie  !  fie  !  Lothair  ;  don't  lie  to  friends  like  these  ! 

BERTO. 
How 's  your  aunt's  lap-dog  ? 

ORSETTI. 

And  the  good  Arch-Priest, 
Your  venerable  uncle,  —  how  is  he  ? 

LOTHAIR. 
All  well,  —  I  thank  you  kindly,  — very  well. 

BERTO. 

Speak  like  a  man,  and  let  your  comrades  know 
What  mischief  you  have  wrought  without  their  help. 

HUON. 
Give  him  some  wine  first.  (Pours.) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LOTHAIR. 

Yes,  my  throat  is  dry. 
I  drink,  good  Berto,  to  your  better  luck  ; 
For  surely  you  've  been  playing,  — and  as  surely 
The  odds  have  gone  against  you. 

BERTO. 

On  my  life 

You  guess  discreetly.     What  of  that,  my  boy  ? 
Gold 's  for  the  spending,  be  it  lost  or  won  ; 
Though  I  could  wish  I  had  your  star,  Lothair, 

In  every  venture. 

LOTHAIR. 

This  is  generous  wine,  — 
A  wine  to  sing  about ;  though  'tis  a  point 
How  far  the  wine  and  singing  go  together. 

BERTO. 

What  say  you  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Why,  your  poets  cannot  drink 
As  we.     They  settle  on  the  goblet's  brim 
Already  half-intoxicate  with  song. 
The  fiery  vapor  is  enough  to  turn 
Their  sublimated  brains  ;  while  you  and  I 
Plunge  to  the  muzzle,  like  a  steed  at  water, 
And  keep  the  heavenly  madness  for  ourselves, 
Which  they,  not  having,  sing  to  all  the  world. 


59 


60  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

HUON. 

True,  true  ;  your  men  who  linger  in  ideas 

Are  not  the  men  for  pleasure.     As  with  wine, 

So  is  't  with  women.     Your  true  worshipper 

Can  never  pass  the  outer  circle  dim 

Of  their  enchantments  :  he  is  lost,  transfixed 

In  admiration,  while  the  vision  fair, 

Dissolving,  leaves  him  empty  as  before. 

So  have  I  seen  one  introduced  at  court, 

Stand  gaping  at  resplendent  sovereignty, 

Until  the  favorable  moment  passed, 

And  left  him  but  his  wonder  for  his  pains. 

Another  presses  forward,  gains  the  eye, 

The  ear  of  power ;  gets  pension,  title,  place, 

While  our  poor  clown  has  nothing  asked  or  had. 

LORENZO. 

But  could  the  prince  or  lady  stand  to  choose, 
Would  they  not,  think  you,  crown  the  modest  heart 
With  high  deserving  ? 

HDON 

It  concerns  us  not 
To  force  conclusions.     Take  things  as  they  are. 

ORSETTI. 

Your  woman-hunter  tires  down  his  prey 
With  the  true  game-dog  instinct ;  ;t  is  the  love 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Of  conquest,  not  the  feeble  thing  he  hunts, 
Incites  him. 

LOTHAIR  (indicating  LORENZO). 

Berto,  who  is  he  that  spoke 
Just  now  ? 

BERTO  (to  LOTHAIR). 
A  stranger  chance  threw  in  our  way. 
I  have  not  heard  his  name,  or  else  forgot  it. 
'T  is  a  green,  peevish  youth ;  let 's  med'cine  him 
With  something  stronger  than  his  mother's  milk, 
Scarce  out  of  him,  I  judge. 

LOTHAIR. 

Indeed,  poor  babe ! 
He  's  come  into  a  proper  nursery, 
Eh,  Berto  ?     I  will  look  to  him  anon. 

HUON. 

'T  is  an  impertinence  to  reason  thus, 
When  one,  of  great  authority  in  these 
And  other  matters,  sits  at  wine  with  us. 
Lothair  is  here,  the  keenest,  luckiest, 
In  these  high  sports  ;  the  man  who  never  missed 
His  game  ;  who  has  the  pleasure,  and  escapes 
The  useless  reckoning.     Come,  Don  Juan  mine, 
Unfold  for  us  thy  catalogue,  as  long 
And  blooming  as  a  florist's ;  let  us  hear 
What  new  adventures  have  beguiled  this  month. 


oz  THE  WORLD'S 

They  should  be  many,  for  Lothair  lives  not 
A  week  that  brings  not  its  intrigue  to  pass, 
As  surely  as  its  Sunday. 

BERTO  (filling  LOTHAIR'S  glass). 

Drink  again. 

LOTHAIR  (after  drinking]. 

He  should  miscall,  who  named  me  woman-hunter  : 
Hunted  were  nearer  truth.     The  creatures  know 
Too  well  the  natural  softness  of  my  heart, 
Not  to  abuse  it.     Angels,  shall  we  call  them  ? 
Women  are  angels  ;  but,  like  Lucifer, 
They  have  a  natural  tendency  to  fall, 
And  drag  us  after. 

BERTO. 

0,  you  handsome  dog  ! 

Will  you  pretend  to  ignore  the  tempter's  part  ? 
You  play  the  victim  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

On  my  life,  I  may. 

The  pretty  dears  are  deep  in  provocation. 
The  very  germ  of  womanhood  's  a  hook 
With  a  bait  on  it.     How  they  angle  for  us  ! 
They  madden  us  with  prudence  ;  at  the  last 
They  pass  the  palm  of  conquest  to  our  sex, 
Through  subtle  instinct,  when,  in  truth,  we  were 
The  sought,  the  wooed,  the  conquered.  Thus  it  goes. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Ah,  they  have  led  me  many  a  weary  dance  ! 
Would  they  but  henceforth  leave  me  to  myself, 
»T  were  worth  the  thanking.     Berto,  give  more  wine. 

(Drinks.) 

HUON. 

They  '11  hang  about  you  while  your  beauty  stays, 
Your  vigor,  and  your  fortune.     Let  these  go, 
As,  in  a  merry,  swashing  life,  they  may,  — 
You  need  not  shun  the  women. 

LORENZO. 

Gentlemen, 

I  am  not  forward,  in  such  company, 
To  speak  of  things  most  sacred :  't  is  the  fault 
Of  words  of  yours,  if  mine  grow  vehement. 
I  think  we  call  those  Women,  who  uphold 
Faint  hearts  and  strong,  with  angel  countenance  ; 
Who  stand  for  all  that 's  high  in  Faith's  resolve, 
Or  great  in  Hope's  first  promise.     Women  they 
Whose  shadows,  passing,  heal  the  fevered  brow, 
And  were  a  thing  for  grateful  lips  to  press, 
Were  't  not  that  men  like  you  and  Judas  kiss  ! 
Remembrances  like  these,  with  all  of  us, 
Lie  nearer  to  the  heart  than  to  the  lips. 
But  such  let  not  an  hour  like  this  profane  ; 
We  name  them  not  o'er  goblets  emptied  oft, 


64  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

But,  pouring  once  to  them  the  sacred  wine, 
Shatter  the  vase  forever ! 

Weaker  forms, 

Where  blood  o'ermasters  brain,  and  stops  drawn  out 
Let  the  full  rush  of  passion  oversweep 
Thought's  modest  labor  at  the  finger-board, 
Are  near  us  in  our  daily  lives.     For  these, 
Justice  has  yet  an  earnest  word  to  say  ; 
Ev'n  the  frail  creature  with  a  moment's  bloom, 
That  pays  your  pleasure  with  her  sacrifice, 
And,  having  first  a  marketable  price, 
Grows  thenceforth  valueless,  —  e'en  such  an  one, 
Lifted  a  little  from  the  mire,  and  purged 
By  hands  severely  kind,  will  give  to  view 
The  germ  of  all  we  honor,  in  the  form 
Of  all  that  we  abhor.     You  fling  a  jewel 
Where  wild  feet  tramp,  and  crushing  wheels  go  by  ; 
You  cannot  tread  the  splendor  from  its  dust ; 
So,  in  the  shattered  relics,  shimmers  yet 
Through  tears  and  grime,  the  pride  of  womanhood. 
A  man,  —  I  would  show  courtesy  to  all ;  — 

( With  emphasis. ) 

Forbearance,  even,  to  some.     Were  I  a  king, 
To  woman  I  would  lift  my  coronet ! 

LOTHAIR    (to   HUON). 

See  how  the  crimson  flashes  to  his  brow  ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  65 

This  is  some  virgin-souled  enthusiast. 
Hub'n,  we  were  of  his  opinion  once  ! 
Eheu  !  that  time  seems  further  than  it  is. 
But  you  and  I  have  seen  the  world,  my  boy ! 

BERTO. 

Sir,  you  have  spoken  honestly  and  well ; 
But  you  '11  not  hold  to  these  illusions  long. 

LORENZO  (with  solemnity). 
If  it  please  God,  may  life  depart  from  me 
Ere  I  lose  faith  in  woman's  nobleness  I 

LOTHAIR. 
A  madman's  prayer  I 

HUON. 

What  need  of  prayer  at  all  ? 
I  must  confess  my  patience  serves  me  not 
To  stay  a  sermon,  where  we  ask  a  toast. 
But,  has  our  reverend  father  breathed  his  zeal, 
We  '11  hear  Lothair  upon  another  theme,  — 
The  story  of  a  month  in  mountain-land. 

LOTHAIR  (to  HUON). 

Why,  yes.     Gods  !   I  '11  astound  the  Puritan. 
Yet  'tis  a  simple  story,  —  briefly  this  : 
A  traveller  in  an  unknown  neighborhood, 
Detained  by  breaking  of  a  carriage-wheel, 
That  proved  a  very  wheel  of  Fortune  to  him, 
Through  invitation  of  two  glorious  eyes, 
5 


66  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Sealed  by  the  sanction  of  two  lovely  lips, 

Became  the  captive  of  two  swan-like  arms, 

And  stayed,  content,  in  their  captivity, 

Till  —  till  —  in  fact,  he  thought  it  best  to  go. 

I  trust  I  am  decorous  in  my  style  ; 

Hints  to  the  wise,  you  know !  —  my  story  's  done. 

BERTO. 

It  runs  as  smoothly  as  a  nursery-tale  ; 

But  'tis  too  vague  in  outline.     Give  some  facts 

To  mark  the  doubtful  footprints  of  your  friend. 

HUON  (with  irony}. 
I  hope  he  did  not  harm  an  innocent  girl. 

ORSETTI. 
Few  men  have  that  good  fortune,  I  'm  afraid. 

LOTHAIR. 

You  shall  not  mar  the  conquest  of  my  friend, 
Cynic  —  this  was  a  bud  whose  virgin  heart 
Found  its  first  summer  in  the  glow  of  his. 
Such  summers  are  unthrifty,  as  you  know  ; 
All  they  have  gathered  falls  in  autumn's  lap. 
Perhaps  she  mourns  him.     He  desires  it  not,  — 
Why  should  she  ?     Life  and  love  are  left  her  still ; 
No  funeral  pyre  awaits  to  end  them  both. 
I  talk  as  though  the  thing  were  serious  ; 
That  you  have  leave  to  laugh  at,  if  you  will. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  67 

HUON. 

Could  you  not  shed  some  penitential  tears  ? 
Methinks  you  grow  pathetic. 

ORSETTI  (with  mock  pathos) . 

On  my  word, 
It  is  a  very  touching  history. 

BERTO. 

Why  can't  you  tell  us  what  the  girl  was  like  ? 
As  handsome  as  the  last  one  ?     No,  not  quite. 

LOTHAIR. 

Handsome  ?     You  shall  not  find  her  counterpart 
'T  wixt  this  and  the  Circassian  nurseries. 
Gentles,  that  was  a  woman  !     Such  an  eye, 
Such  lips,  such  shoulders,  Passion's  ecstasy, 
Attempered  by  the  snow-hue  of  her  skin, 
Like  wine  in  ice,  to  madness  exquisite. 

HUON. 

He  always  vapors  of  his  women  thus  ; 
She  was  some  sunburnt  dowdy,  very  like ! 

LOTHAIR  (taking  out  a  portrait). 
See  for  yourself ;  confess  that  beautiful, 
Or  let  me  call  you  night-owls,  blind  worms,  moles. 

HUON  (considering  (he  portrait). 
Humph  !  let  me  see  !     Upon  my  word,  not  bad  ! 


68  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

ORSETTI. 

Give  me  the  shadowy  pleasure  of  a  look. 

Tore  Heaven,  you've  wronged  the    sovereign,  sir! 

Such  charias 
Are  naturally  rescript  to  royalty. 

HUON. 

That 's  true  ;  you  '11  give  me  her  address  and  name  ? 
(LORENZO  takes  the  portrait.} 

LOTHAIR. 

You  could  not  win  her,  Berto,  with  your  gold  ; 
Nor  Hubn,  with  his  devil's  enterprise. 
No  sordid  bargain  gave  my  suit  success. 

She  loved  me. 

HUON. 

0,  you  're  modest ! — in  that  case 
Why  did  you  leave  her  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

That 's  the  worst  of  it. 
I  thought  to  spend  another  joyous  month  ; 
But  circumstances  intervened.     A  broil, 
A  jealous  rival.    Were  it  not  for  these 
I  had  not  been  with  you,  my  friends,  to-night. 

HDON  (with  meaning}. 
Better  employed  your  countship  would  have  been. 

LOTHAIR  (significantly}. 
Perhaps. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  69 

LORENZO  (coming forward) . 

Are  you  the  hero  of  your  tale  ? 

HUON. 
It  needs  no  prophet  to  declare  us  that. 

LORENZO. 
And  is  this  portrait  hers  of  whom  you  spake  ? 

(LOTHAIR  nods  assent.) 

LORENZO. 

You  had  the  heart  to  leave  your  evil  mark,  — 
The  foulest,  —  on  this  glorious  brow  ;  these  eyes, 
Tender  and  passionate  ;  these  faultless  lips, 
Whose  silence  cries  to  God  like  victims'  blood  ! 
Say,  was  it  yours,  the  deed  that  you  aver, 
Or  is  this  empty  boasting  ?     It  is  true  ! 
Then,  let  me  give  your  villainy  its  name, 
And  tell  you  that  a  blow  from  this  right  hand 
Were  just,  —  had  it  deserved  so  mean  a  service. 

LOTHAIR  (starting). 
Hell 's  fury  !  do  you  dare  to  tell  me  this  ? 

HUON. 

Come  on  !     Draw  swords  ;   we  '11  stand  to  see  fair 
play. 

LORENZO. 

I  am  no  partner  for  a  midnight  brawl. 

The  morning  sun  may  shame  you  to  your  senses  ; 

(Throws  down  a  card.) 


70  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

If  not,  I  fling  you  here  my  honest  name, 

And  when  we  meet,  may  God  protect  the  right. 

(Exit.) 

ORSETTI  (after  a  moment's  silence). 
Go,  saucy  cockerel !  we  're  well  rid  of  thee. 

HUON. 
Lothair,  my  man,  you  should  have  let  him  blood. 

BERTO. 
He  was  too  quick  with  his  impertinence. 

HUON. 
I  '11  be  the  bearer  of  your  line,  to-morrow. 

(LOTHAIR  (suddenly). 
The  portrait,  ha  !     Up  boys,  and  follow  him  ! 

( They  all  rush  out. ) 


ACT    THIRD. 
SCENE  I.  — A  Room  in  an  Inn. 

EDWARD    (SOIUS). 

THITHER  and  thither  by  her  frenzy  led. 

0,  the  wild  errand,  with  the  frantic  end  ! 

0,  piteous  lavishing  of  holy  gifts 

On  a  remorseless  idol,  absent,  dumb  ! 

I  chide,  and  1  grow  like  her,  wandering  on, 

Seeking  new  places,  plunging  into  crowds, 

With  eyes  intent  to  ravel  out  their  web, 

And  seize  the  thread  of  Fate.     On  lonely  heaths 

Like  her  I  see  no  spot  so  poor  and  bare 

But  it  should  yield  him,  like  a  spell  of  joy, 

Could  her  foot  touch  the  right  stone.     Swifter  hope 

Leads  her,  in  towns  where  strangers  congregate ; 

Then,  how  she  threads  the  narrow  ways  between 

The  booths  ;  heeds  not  the  bestial  and  profane, 

Hears  not  the  music,  murderous  of  tune  ! 

Nor  would  she  know,  if  angels  stood  and  sang. 

She  listens  only  to  the  far-off  pipe 

That  draws  her,  with  its  thin-worn  melody, 

(71) 


Y2  THE  WORLDS  OWN. 

Through  the  flushed  present  to  the  far-off  goal, — 

A  dim,  gray  vista,  with  a  sudden  red 

That  drops,  death-quenched,  ere  you  can  win  to  it. 

(After  a  pause.) 

To-day  her  hope 's  in  fuller  heart  than  ever  ; 
A  market-town  hangs  simmering  in  our  way  ; 
"  There  will  be  many  people  there,"  she  says, 
"  Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ?  "     Indeed,  poor  child! 

who  knows  ? 

So,  here  we  are.     That  step  upon  the  stairs 
Is  like  Lorenzo's  ;  could  I  think  it  he  ? 

(The  door  opens.) 


SCENE    II.  —  The  above.     LORENZO  enters. 

EDWARD. 

It  is,  indeed  !  ( They  embrace. ) 

LORENZO. 

Edward  !  we  meet  at  last. 
'T  is  a  kind  chance  that  brings  us  face  to  face. 

(Looking  at  him.) 
Why  !    you've  much  altered,  man  !      What  mean 

these  looks  ? 
You  turn  away  ;  your  brow  is  worn  and  sad. 

EDWARD. 
I  've  been  at  work,  you  know,  with  over-zeal, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  73 

Sketching  by  midnight,  working  up  by  day. 

No  one  grew  ever  great  in  any  art 

Who  did  not  with  this  pallor  paint  himself. 

LORENZO. 

No  —  that 's  not  it !  Some  sorrow  weighs  you  down  ; 
Is  it  too  great  for  words  ?     You  '11  tell  it  me 
In  time.     I  have  no  rest  until  I  share  it. 
EDWARD  (with  forced  gayety}. 
Who  talks  of  sorrow  ?  —  Give  us  bread  and  wine, 
And  this  shall  be  a  feast.     'T  is  nigh  a  year 
Since  we  have  pledged  each  other.     Boy,  this  way ! 
A  flask  of  Rhenish  ! 

LORENZO. 

I  am  not  athirst. 
(Boy  places  wine,  &c.,  on  a  small  table.     They  sit. 

EDWARD  pours). 

Here  's  to  our  meeting  !  ( They  drink. ) 

LORENZO. 

Tell  of  your  return. 
How  was  't  ?     Auspicious  ?     Did  the  maiden  smile  ? 

EDWARD. 

She  smiles  no  more  !     The  girl  I  loved  is  dead  ! 

That  is,  I  think  of  her  as  if  she  were. 

Talk  of  your  travels  ;  you  have  much  to  tell ! 

LORENZO. 
This  is  most  strange  ! 


74  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

EDWARD. 

You  're  all  the  way  from  Rome  ; 
Have  you  no  tidings  ? 

LORENZO. 

Nothing  worthy  note. 

EDWARD. 

What  of  your  journey  ? 

LORENZO. 

Prosperous  enough, 

But  bare  of  incident.     Nay,  on  my  word, 
I  had  a  story  freshly  in  my  thoughts, 
When  your  pale  face  suggested  other  themes. 

EDWARD. 

Adventures  wait  for  gallant  knights  like  you. 
Proceed,  —  I  'in  eager  for  your  narrative. 

LORENZO. 

I  chanced  among  some  braggarts  at  their  wine 
One  evening  ;  —  wherefore,  let 's  not  fill  too  oft ;  — 
In  the  full  flush  of  lustihood  were  they, 
With  rank  and  money  to  their  mind,  I  think  ! 
And  one  of  them  the  man  for  women's  eyes  ;  — 
You  know  the  sort.     Had  one  a  sister,  now, 
God  rest  her  in  her  grave  ere  wooed  of  him  ! 

EDWARD. 

Ay,  say  you  so  ?     You  would  not  pray  amiss. 
Proceed. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  «* 

LORENZO. 

His  presence  was  profane  to  me 
Before  his  lips  unlocked  their  evil  treasures. 
The  talk  soon  turned  on  amorous  enterprise  ; 
All  turned  to  him  as  one  supremely  versed  ; 
And  he,  with  some  new-glowing  conquest  crowned, 
Told  its  loose  tale  ;  resigned  its  heroine 
To  hints,  and  shrugs,  and  jeers,  which,  on  my  word, 
If  women  feel  as  we,  should  burn  like  hell, 
And  bring  shame's  scarlet  to  a  wanton's  cheek. 

EDWARD  (aside). 
This  might  be  he,  or  any  one.  (Aloud.) 

Say  on  I 
LORENZO. 

He  had  a  portrait ;  it  was  hers,  he  said  ; 

His  boon  companions  (such  men  have  no  friends) 

Drove  on  their  jesting  till  he  showed  it  them. 

EDWARD. 

It  was ? 

LORENZO. 

God's  pity  !  what  a  face  it  was  ! 
Like  something,  too,  that  I  have  seen  in  dreams, 
Or  in  a  picture  ;  but  more  beautiful. 
It  seemed  to  plead  for  rescue  at  my  hands, 
And  so  —  I  snatched  it. 

EDWARD. 
Have  you  brought  it  here  ? 


THE    WORLD  S    OWN. 
LORENZO. 
EDWARD. 

;T  is  she  !     I  knew  it  from  the  first ! 

LORENZO. 

Edward,  you  falter  !  —  tell  me,  why  is  this  ? 

EDWARD. 

Had  I  his  heart's  blood  !  had  I  that,  Lorenzo  ! 

LORENZO. 
You  've  known  her,  then  —  the  victim  of  this  man  ? 

EDWARD. 

Ask  this  grief-hardened  bosom,  these  parched  eyes, 
Whose  tears  have  left  their  burning  bed  a-dry, 
If  I  have  known  her  ! 

LORENZO'. 

All  grows  clear  to  me,  — 
JT  was  in  a  sketch  of  yours  I  saw  the  face  ; 
This  was  your  Leonora  ! 

EDWARD. 

Name  her  not ! 

LORENZO. 

Poor  maid  !  poor  Edward  !     Help  is  idle  here. 

EDWARD. 

Justice  remains.     We  '11  talk  of  that  anon. 
Say,  did  you  leave  his  baseness  unchastised  ? 

LORENZO. 
I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  strike  him  down  ; 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  77 

But  what,  —  't  is  pitiful  to  harm  a  coward  ; 
I  smote  him  only  with  a  shameful  word, 
And,  spurning,  left  him  to  his  fellows'  scorn. 
EDWARD. 

0  worthy  friend  !  't  was  well,  't  was  nobly  done  ; 
But  it  seems  little  to  my  angry  heart. 

1  could  become  a  fiend,  to  plot  his  ruin. 

LORENZO. 

God  needs  not  men  like  you,  nor  me,  for  that. 
Such  wretches  twine  the  slip-noose  for  themselves. 
What  we  can  do  for  her  were  first  to  seek. 
Where  is  she  ? 

EDWARD. 

Searching  the  wide  world  for  him, 
With  me  to  help  her. 

LORENZO. 

Then  she  's  nigh  at  hand, 
And  hanging  still  upon  a  treacherous  hope. 
Can  you  unmask  him  to  her  ? 

EDWARD. 

Such  a  task 
Affection's  utmost  should  require  of  me. 

(After  a  pause.) 

Give  me  that  portrait.     You  should  follow  me  ; 
Your  statement  only  can  establish  mine. 


.'"  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Support  me,  Heaven  !  beneath  the  weight  of  woe 
I  bear  to  her. 

(Exeunt.} 


SCENE  III.  —  A  Street.     LEONORA,  KITCHEN. 

LEONORA. 

I  know  not  why  I  am  so  light  to-day. 
I  seem  to  breathe  the  sunshine,  taste  the  flowers, 
Weave  rainbow  clothing  from  this  golden  air, 
The  morning's  gift,  that  scatters  heaven  abroad. 
He  is  not  distant,  Katchen.     Do  not  smile  ! 
To-day,  be  sure,  he  lives  in  happiness, 
And  from  his  heart  the  first  glad  overflow 
Sends  its  wide  circlings  of  delight  to  mine. 
'T  is  such  a  day  shall  bring  us  face  to  face  ; 
Nay,  never  shake  thy  head.     I  will  not  bear 
Doubt  in  my  presence  ;  —better  walk  alone  ;  — 
For,  Katchen,  I  'm  as  sure  of  meeting  him, 
As  next  year's  spring-tide,  if  I  live  so  long. 
And  I  shall  see  what  has  become  a  vision,  — 
So  long,  so  far  I  follow  it,  —  and  sink, 
To  die,  perhaps,  —  what  matter  ?  —  on  his  breast. 

(She  clasps  her  hands,  and  pauses.) 
I  fear  I  Ve  been  undutiful,  of  late  ; 
For  though  I  have  miraculous  support 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  79 

To  pierce  the  devious  ways,  as  some  pale  moon 
Threads  the  dim  vapors,  striving  towards  her  heaven, 
Yet,  when  the  wavering  columns  of  the  day 
Give  way,  and  swift  the  weight  of  darkness  falls, 
Crushing  my  hope  and  me,  I  sink  so  low 
The  grave  itself  seems  near  me  ;  but  at  morn 
The  little  prisoner  finds  its  wing  again. 

KATCHKX. 

Alas,  my  child !  who  knows  what  nights  and  mor 
rows, 

What  days  and  years,  this  search  shall  link  together? 
You  '11  drop  me,  somewhere,  in  a  wayside  grave, 
But  you  may  perish  on  some  lonely  moor, 
Where  ev'n  poor  Kiitchen's  comfort  were  not  scorned, 
Where  unblest  brutes  and  wicked  ghosts  may  strive 
To  cheat  your  bones  of  Christian  burial. 

LEONORA. 

I  do  not  love  you  when  your  speech  runs  thus  ; 
'T  were  best  would  you  and  Edward  go  your  ways, 
And  leave  me  to  myself. 

KATCHEN. 

Not  while  I  live. 
Enter  FLOWER-GIRL. 

LEONORA. 

Forgive  me,  Katchen  ;  I  was  harsh,  indeed. 
See,  the  fresh  roses  !     Hither,  little  maid  ! 


80  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

You  need  not  bear  them  further  ;  we  are  poor, 
But  Katchen  will  not  grudge  this  shining  coin 
That  buys  a  priceless  joy  of  memory. 

FLOWER-GIRL. 

Keep  it,  I  pray  !  you  're  welcome  to  the  flowers. 
I  'd  rather  give  to  you  than  sell  to  some. 

LEONORA. 

Not  so,  dear  child  ;  you  have  your  bread  to  earn, 
And  must  keep  thrifty  commerce  with  your  wares. 

KATCHEN. 

Thank  God  if  they  can  give  you  honest  life. 

FLOWER-GIRL. 

What  else  ?     I  earn  the  little  that  I  need, 
And  keep  my  friends  and  favorite  customers  ; 
Lovers  are  generous  with  their  gold,  you  know, 
And  love  needs  flowers  to  help  its  blushing  tale. 
One  buys  my  freshest  violets  every  day, 
And,  flinging  thrice  their  value,  looks  not  back, 
Hurrying  to  the  street  beyond  the  square, 
Where,  from  a  window,  leans  his  lady-love. 

LEONORA. 

God  keep  them  happy !     I  have  chosen  these. 

( Taking  flowers. ) 

FLOWER-GIRL. 

And  some  buy  rosemary,  to  strew  on  graves, 
And  some,  rich  garlands  for  a  wedding-feast, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  81 

Or  lilies,  for  the  altar  of  their  saint. 
You  see,  it  is  my  fortune  that  they  fade. 
God,  when  he  made  them  so,  remembered  us. 

(Exit.) 

LEONORA. 

'T  is  wild  to  flaunt  with  posies  in  the  street,  — 
But,  could  I  meet  him,  I  'd  be  thus  arrayed ; 
The  white  and  red,  for  Love  and  Truth,  just  here, 
Where  the  thin  folds  are  gathered  on  my  breast. 
This  was  the  toilet  of  my  happiest  days, 
And  still  it  seems  familiar.     Hearken,  Kiitchen ! 
Should  God  recall  my  spirit  ere  we  meet, 
And  heaven,  not  earth,  unfold  that  blissful  hour, 
7T  is  thus  thou  shalt  adorn  me  for  my  bier ; 
Thus  will  I  make  my  progress  to  the  tomb,  — 
For  he  might  pass  me,  fading  in  my  shroud, 
And  smile  to  see  me  still  attired  for  him. 

(Suddenly  turning  her  head.) 

There  comes  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  this  way  — 
0,  ever,  when  I  hear  it,  leaps  my  heart ! 

Enter  LOTHAIR  and  HELEN  at  the  further  end  of  the  stage;  they 
walk  along  as  in  the  street.  LEONORE  and  KATCHBN  have 
retired  a  little  in  the  background. 

LOTHAIR  (to  HELEN). 

'T  will  rest  you,  love,  to  walk  this  quaint  old  street. 
And  hunt  its  treasures,  while  the  horses  stand. 
6 


82  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

The  tedious  chariot  wearies  us  and  them ; 
Grand,  like  our  state,  but  slow  and  irksome  too. 

HELEN. 

I  thank  you.     I  was  eager  to  descend, 
Cramped  with  long  sitting.     Will  our  boy  be  safe, 
Think  you  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Why,  what  should  harm  him  where  he  sits  ? 
You  mothers  travel  wide  to  find  a  fear. 

LEONORA. 

Lothair  ! 
(She  tries  to  advance,  but  falls  sensekss.) 

HELEN. 
What  girl  is  this  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Some  sickly  fool ! 

Let  us  walk  further ;  there  's  the  market-place  ; 
The  palace  with  the  pictures  is  beyond. 

HELEN. 
She  knows  your  name. 

LOTHAIR. 

Only  by  miracle. 

I  should  be  tasked,  indeed,  to  tell  you  hers. 
Come,  we  lose  time. 

KATCHEN  (springing  before  Mm). 

Stay,  Count  Lothair !  for  shame, 
If  not  for  pity. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  83 

LOTH  AIR  (angrily}. 

Sharne  is  lost,  I  think, 

When  things  like  you  patrol  the  streets  by  day ! 
Release  my  arm,  or  take  this !  't  is  your  fault. 

(Striking  her.} 
HELEN  (screams). 
Ah !  do  not  strike  her ! 

(KATCHEN  drops  her  hold,  ivi(h  a  cry  of  pain.) 
LOTHAIR  (dragging  HELEN  along). 
Madam,  come  away ! 

HELEN. 

Let  me  go  back  to  help  her  !     See  !  she  lies 
Upon  the  flinty  bosom  of  the  street. 

LOTHAIR. 

Go  at  your  peril,  madam  !     It  beseems 
My  rank  that  you  should  parley  with  a  wench ! 
Come  on,  I  say  ! 

HELEN. 
Heaven  help  thee,  wretched  one  ! 

(Exeunt. ) 

KATCHEN  (bending  over  LEONORA). 
Shall  I  recall  her  to  this  heartless  world  ? 
The  dead  will  move  her  envy,  when  she  wakes. 

Reenter  FLOWER-GIRL. 
But  she  must  wake.  Help,  child !  your  friend  lies  here. 


84  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

GIRL. 
Alas  !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

KATCHEN. 

Bring  water  straight ; 
The  fountain  yonder. 

GIRL  (runs  and  returns]. 
Yes,  I  have  it  here. 

KATCHEN. 

Pour  on  her  temples  ;  see,  she  breathes,  she  stirs  ! 

Be  not  in  haste,  sad  eyes,  to  open  here  ! 

Keep  still  a  while,  poor  heart  I  you  're  happier  so. 

LEONORA  (opens  her  eyes). 
Lothair !  not  here  ?     I  saw  him  in  a  dream  ; 
No,  no  !  he  's  gone,  alas !  he  knew  me  not ; 
I  must  be  altered ! 

(Springs  to  her  feet,  seizes  the  FLOWER-GIRL  by  the 
shoulder. ) 

Which  way  did  he  go  ? 
Speak !  speak  !  you  cheat  me  of  this  precious  time. 

GIRL. 

I  met  a  noble  as  I  came  this  way, 
And  on  his  arm  a  lady. 

LEONORA. 

Do  not  prattle,  — 
Where  saw'st  thou  him  ? 


THE    WORLD  S    OWN.  86 

GIRL. 

Beyond  the  market-place  ; 
But  they  walked  rapidly. 

LEONORA. 

That  way  ? 

GIRL. 

That  way. 

(LEONORA  goes.) 

KATCHEN. 

Leonora  !     Leonora !   my  own  child, 
Stay,  if  you  love  me  ! 

LEONORA  (looking  back). 

Not  for  God  in  heaven  I 


SCENE      IV.  —  A  Room  in  an   Inn.     Enter  LOTHAIR  and 
HELEN. 

LOTHAIR  (aside). 

All  safe,  thank  Heaven  ! 

(Aloud.) 

Dear  Helen,  rest  you  here  ; 
I  bade  them  bring  the  choicest  grapes  and  wine. 
You  must  take  some  refreshment,  for  we  leave 
Within  the  hour.     I  go  to  seek  our  grooms. 

HELEN. 

You  need  not  send  the  fruit.     I  never  felt 
Further  from  hunger  than  I  do  to-day. 


86  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LOTHAIR. 

Why  are  you  grown  so  sudden  cold  and  strange  ? 
Your  very  voice  seems  altered.     Do  not  say 
It  was  that  silly  business  in  the  street,  — 
A  scene  well-acted ;  poh  !  the  merest  jest. 

HELEN. 
I  will  say  nothing. 

LOTHAIR. 

Helen,  change  that  tone ; 

Look  like  yourself,  or  I  shall  think  you  jealous, 
Of  what  ?  —  a  thing  I  would  not  stoop  to  pick 
From  off  the  pavement. 

HELEN. 

Do  not  slander  her  ; 

My  woman's  heart  will  take  no  pleasure  in  it. 
I  saw  her  face  ;  it  was  no  wicked  one, 
But  very  young  and  beautiful. 
LOTHAIR. 

My  child, 

You  do  not  know  the  world.    These  shameless  women 
Can  simulate  all  virtues  for  their  ends. 
Even  the  blushing  gift  of  modesty 
They  trade  with,  when  occasion  calls  for  it. 
But  that  I  could  not  keep  my  angel  wife 
In  such  vile  presence,  I  had  shamed  the  creatures 
Back  to  the  noisome  sewers  where  they  live. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  81 

HELEN. 

What  sound  without  ? 

LEONORA  (without). 

I  know  that  he  is  here  ! 

Enter  LEONORA.     LOTHAIR'S  hand  seeks  his  dagger.     He  startt 
forward;  HELEN  intervenes. 

HELEN. 

Now,  by  God's  life  !  this  woman  shall  have  speech  ! 
(LOTHAIR  stands  transfixed.     LEONORA  advancing, 
fwlds  him  at  arm's  length,  gazing  fixedly  at  him. 
After  some  moments  she  turns  abruptly  from 
him,  and  sinks  upon  a  seat.) 

LEONORA. 

'T  is  he  !     I  did  not  dream,  nor  was  I  mad, 

In  all  the  'wildered  ruin  of  my  heart. 

'T  is  he,  unchanged  in  form  and  countenance  ; 

No  death-like  pang  has  left  its  rigid  mark 

Along  his  features.     Is  it  not  for  this, 

Because  he  is  unchanged,  that,  here  in  sight, 

I  do  not  know  him,  —  cannot  speak  to  him  ? 

There  is  a  gulf  of  agony  between  us, 

Silent  and  deep,  which  I  have  crossed  alone,  — 

And  he  stands  there,  and  we  are  parted  still. 

Lothair,  —  if  it  be  thou  indeed,  —  dissolve 

This  icy  spell  with  one  familiar  word. 

0,  smile  !  0,  speak  !     Give  me  the  old,  dear  name, 


88  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

And  loose  those  arms  that  keep  me  from  thy  heart ! 

( Going  nearer  to  him,  she  slops  suddenly. ) 
He  dares  not  smile,  nor  speak  ;  a  sullen  glow 
And  leaden  pallor  alternate  upon 
The  cheek  that  used  to  shame  mine,  prest  to  it. 

( With  a  cry. ) 
It  is  not  he !  no  time  could  change  him  so  ! 

( She  perceives  HELEN.) 

We  're  not  alone  !     What  lady  pale  and  still 
Looks  like  a  ghost  upon  us  ?     Pray  you,  madam, 
Know  you  this  gentleman  as  Count  Lothair  ? 

(HELEN  bows  assent. ) 
And  you,  —  his  sister,  or  his  friend  ? 
HELEN. 

His  wife. 

LEONORA. 

You  're  merry,  madam  1     Whosoe'er  you  be 
Your  jesting  is  ill-chosen  and  worse-timed. 

HELEN  (with  dignity}. 
I  do  not  jest. 

LEONORA. 

Lothair,  —  what  may  this  mean  ? 

HELEN. 

Speak,  sir,  the  truth. 

LOTHAIR  (with  effort). 

This  lady  is  my  wife. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  89 

LEONORA. 

What  strength  shall  hold  me  up  to  suffer  this  ? 
Let  me  hear  all,  — is  this  your  wedded  wife  ? 

LOTHAIR. 
Surely  she  is. 

LEONORA. 

And  I,  0  God,  betrayed  ! 

Do  you  remember  me  ?     These  eyes,  these  lips, 
This  bosom,  —  was  it  you  who  ravished  all 
The  poor  girl's  dower  ?     This  very  lock  of  hair 
Has  lost  its  fellow,  —  do  you  know  its  fate  ? 
Upon  your  heart  you  swore  that  it  should  lie 
Till  death, — upon  the  heart  that  swelled  with  pleasure 
To  ecstasy,  you  said,  when  I  drew  nigh. 
Sweet  words,  —  sweet  breath,  —  a  madness  of  delight 
In  which  my  soul  passed  from  me !     Could  I  die, 
And  think  him  not  a  villain,  I  would  bless 
The  hand  that  stabbed  me  !     Say  it  is  not  true  ; 
Say  that  you*  love  me  still ! 

LOTHAIR. 

Mere  raving  this,  — 
You  know  not  what  you  say.     Your  words  offend 

One  who  has  rights. 

LEONORA. 

She  '11  waive  those  rights  a  moment,  — 
Let  your  heart  speak  this  once  before  we  part 
Forever,  —  do  you  love  me  ? 


90  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LOTHAIR. 

No! 

LEONORA. 

0,  fiend ! 

But  'tis  not  true  !     Your  lips  belie  your  heart. 
Your  policy  deems  fit  to  cast  me  off, 
But  you  will  keep  my  image  in  your  thoughts 
Sacred  and  dear. 

LOTHAIR. 
Upon  my  word,  not  I ! 

LEONORA. 

Then  am  I  wronged  as  never  woman  was, 

And  such  a  sin  cries  out  to  Heaven  for  vengeance. 

LOTHAIR. 

Let  me  advise  you  to  depart  in  peace  ; 
You  need  not  stay  to  criminate  yourself. 
Our  journey  presses, — we  must  go  from  hence. 

LEONORA. 

Not  yet,  —  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say 

In  quietness,  —  and  you  must  wait  so  long. 

When  were  you  wed,  —  before  those  days,  or  since  ? 

LOTHAIR. 
In  early  youth. 

LEONORA  (pressing  her  hands  to  her  head). 

Fail  me  not  now,  my  thoughts  ! 

Did  you  not  give  your  hand  as  worldlings  do, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  91 

A  bargain  for  a  bargain,  loving  not  ? 
Your  friends  persuaded  you,  your  fortunes  urged, 
You  took  her  coldly,  —  wanting  but  her  dower, 
And  when  you  met  me,  love  sprang  rashly  up 
In  your  despite,  to  avenge  the  hollow  vow? 

LOTHAIR  (aside). 
I  wonder  that  my  patience  holds  to  this,  — 

(Aloud.) 

I  loved  this  lady,  and  I  love  her  now, 
As  I  can  love  none  other.     Can  you  think 
That  you  might  waken  passion's  fervency, 
Where  she,  the  pure,  the  peerless,  passed  in  vain  ? 
Regard  the  perfect  outline  of  her  face, 
That  takes  its  mould  from  princely  ancestry  ; 
Think,  too,  —  this  angel  is  so  merciful 
That  even  you  have  leave  to  speak  before  her ; 
Consider  this,  —  ay,  ponder  what  it  means, 
Then  dare  to  ask  me  if  I  love  my  wife  I 

LEONORA. 

And  what  was  I  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

A  love-lorn  village  girl ; 
The  ready  partner  of  a  vain  amour, 
Which  grief  of  mine  must  purge  for  fault  of  both. 
With  shame  in  this  dear  presence  I  confess 
You  did  beguile  me  of  some  tenderness, 


92  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

For  which  I  crave  the  pardon  of  this  saint, 
And  you  were  best  implore  it,  and  begone  ! 

LEONORA. 

I  hear  it  all  as  voices  in  a  dream, 
But  as  for  feeling,  I  've  no  feeling  left. 
Thus  was  it  best,  —  why,  this  was  merciful !  — 

All  'B  over  so, 1  was  about  to  go. 

Distraction  waits  upon  the  threshold  yonder, 

To  mock  me  as  I  pass.     The  stones  i'  the  street, 

That  bore  my  hasty  hitherward  steps,  will  stand 

And  laugh  as  I  go  hence.     The  bridal  flowers,  — 

Why  should  I  keep  them  at  my  bosom  more  ?  — 

Lie  there  forever, — ye,  the  sweet  of  earth! 

But,  0  !  this  ring,  —  in  whose  solemnity 

My  life's  whole  thought  lay  centred,  — how  shall  this 

Stand  in  remembrance  as  a  thing  profane  ? 

Madam,  I  lay  it,  sobbing,  at  your  feet, 

Happier  than  I,  who  have  no  refuge  there. 

HELEN. 
If  pity  can  alleviate  thy  pain,  — 

LEONORA. 

Nay,  madam,  —  I  came  hither  in  my  right ; 
Respect  my  ruin,  — fling  no  alms,  I  pray ! 

LOTHAIR. 

You  'd  weary  Heaven's  compassion  with  your  pride. 
Let  all  this  end,  — you  've  cost  us  time  enough. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  93 

Enter  ARTHUR. 

HELEN  (going  towards  him). 
My  child  I 

LEONORA. 

I  see,  —  his  features,  with  her  hair. 
Come  hither. 

LOTHAIR. 

Helen,  take  the  child  away  ! 
(In  an  undertone  to  LEONORA,  showing  his  dagger.) 
If  e'er  you  venture  in  my  path  again 
This  shall  decide  between  us  ! 

LEONORA  (catching  up  the  child). 
Little  one, 

I  have  thee  ;  thou  art  fair  and  innocent. 
Hist !     Shall  I  tell  thee  what  thy  father  is  ? 

He  is what  thou  wert  better  die  than  hear. 

(Putting  the  child  down.) 

Go  from  me  !     God  has  justice,  Count  Lothair  ; 
When  it  draws  nigh  your  door,  remember  me  ! 

(Exit.) 

LOTHAIR. 

She  's  gone  at  last !     Thank  Heaven  ! 

HELEN  (looking  after  her). 

Unhappy  one, 

Let  not  thy  vengeful  prayer  send  judgment  back 
Where  thou  wert  let  depart  uncomforted ! 

(He  kneels  at  her  feet.     Scene  changes.) 


94  THE  WORLD'S  OWN 


SCENE  V.  —  Enter  HUON  and  BERTO. 

BERTO. 

What  kept  Lothair  so  long  ?     He  went  at  last 
In  moody  haste,  his  wife  tipon  his  arm  ; 
I  stopped  him,  and  essayed  a  friendly  jest. 
"  I  'm  in  no  mood  for  your  frivolity  !  " 
He  gruffly  said.     Frivolity,  indeed  ! 

HUOX. 

I  fancy  he  has  met  an  unloved  ghost, 
For,  through  the  arras  (I  was  lodged  next  door), 
I  heard  hot  speech  and  angry  argument ; 
And,  looking  out  thereafter,  I  espied 
A  woman  dashing  headlong  from  his  door. 
With  wild,  quick  step  she  spurned  the  crabbed  stair, 
But,  turning  at  its  base,  her  countenance 
Flashed  full  upon  me,  like  a  certain  one,  — 
Well,  well,  I  '11  keep  this  matter  to  myself. 

BERTO. 
What  was  she  like  ? 

HUON. 

0,  like  a  dream  of  youth  ! 
Go  back,  good  Berto  ;  bid  my  carriage  stand 
Yonder,  behind  the  church.     Command  my  men 
To  be  in  readiness,  lest  I  should  call. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  95 

BERTO. 

What 's  in  your  fancy,  now  ? 

HUON. 

A  merry  plan  ; 
Do  but  my  errand  —  we  shall  meet  ere  long. 

BERTO. 
(Am  I  his  pack-horse  ?)     I  will  see  it  done. 

HUON. 
Farewell.     A  prosperous  journey  to  us  both. 

(Exit  BERTO.) 

HUON. 

It  was  that  glorious  cast-off  of  Lothair's. 

I  knew  her  from  the  portrait ;  following, 

I  saw  her  rush,  dishevelled,  down  the  street, 

Like  a  wild  thing  affrighted  at  itself ; 

And  I  determined  that  she  should  be  mine, 

If  wit  of  man  can  compass  woman's  soul. 

A  woman's  beauty  is  a  power  on  earth, 

A  woman's  passion  is  a  power  in  hell ! 

This  one,  I  see,  is  eminent  in  both  ; 

And  now 's  the  time  to  catch  her  at  rebound, 

And  beat  my  lord  with  his  own  tennis-ball. 

Look  where  she  comes  !     A  sight  to  scare  the  fiend ! 

Marble  and  lightning !  she  is  terrible  ! 


96  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

SCENE     VI.  —  The  same.     Enter  LEONORA. 

LEONORA. 

Let  no  one  say  I  've  wept.     From  these  seared  eyes 
Poisons  may  drop,  but  never  human  tears. 
Some  deadly  power  is  in  me.     Were  he  here, 
My  breath  should  wither  him.     One  sudden  look 
Should  bid  the  life-blood  curdle  at  his  heart, 
Never  to  leave  it  more.     Let  me  not  think ! 
Avenging  God  !     I  was  a  woman  once,  — 
A  thing  to  nourish  children  at  my  breast, 
And  hear  their  angels  whisper  through  my  dreams, 
As  she  does  nightly,  pillowed  on  his  breast. 
With  sorer  travail  now  shall  deeds  of  wrath 
And  ghastly  horror  claim  their  birth  from  me. 

HUON  (taking  her  by  the  arm). 
I  am  your  friend.     So,  give  me  leave  to  speak, 
Nor  pluck  your  sleeve  away  as  if  you  feared. 
What  if  I  knew  your  story,  — knew  your  wrong, 
And  him  who  wronged  you,  handsome  Count  Lothair  ? 
LEONORA  (shrieks). 

HUON. 

Do  not  shriek  !     The  precious  moments  crowd 
Close  on  each  other.     Will  you  come  with  me  ? 
I  '11  help  you  to  revenge. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  97 

LEONORA  (drops  upon  her  knees). 

On  my  knees 

To  that  dear  purpose  I  devote  my  life.  (Rises.) 

But   you,  —  why  should  I  trust  your  faith,  your 
power  ? 

HUON  (showing  a  badge). 

Stay  not  to  question.     For  my  power,  behold 
A  sign  that  makes  men  tremble.     For  my  faith, 
I  can  but  swear  fidelity  to  you. 

LEONORA  (scornfully). 
Is  there  an  oath  can  bind  a  gentleman  ? 
Promise  revenge,  and  you  shall  use  my  life, 
Beyond  it,  as  you  will ;  but  that  shall  be 
The  earnest  of  my  service  —  not  its  wage ! 

HUON  (holding  up  a  dagger). 
I  swear ! 

LEONORA. 

By  him  who  is  at  home  in  hell, 
And  in  our  hearts. 

HDON. 

The  oath  is  singular. 

LEONORE. 

Take  it  I 

HUON. 

By  him  I  swear. 
7 


98  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LEONORA. 

Then  I  am  yours. 

She  gives  him  her  hand;  as  they  go,  enter  from  the  same  side 

EDWARD  and  LORENZO. 

EDWARD. 

'T  is  she  !  't  is  Leonora  ! 

LORENZO. 

In  what  hands  ! 
This  was  his  vile  companion. 
EDWARD. 

Leonora ! 

Come  with  us  where  your  faithful  Katchen  waits, 
Grieved  at  your  long  delay. 

LEONORA. 

I  will  not  come  ! 
My  path  is  chosen  ;  it  is  wide  of  yours. 

EDWARD. 

Your  brain  is  crazed  ;  you  know  not  what  you  say. 
While  love  and  sorrow  waste  themselves  on  you, 
You  cling  for  succor  to  an  arm  like  this, 
Weak  with  the  falsehood  of  the  heart  beneath. 
Come  with  your  true  friends. 

HUON  (drawing  his  sword). 

You  will  find  it  ill 
To  meddle  in  my  matters. 

EDWARD. 

Help,  Lorenzo ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  99 

HUON  (calls). 
What,  ho  !  my  people  ! 

LORENZO  (drawing). 

You  remember  me  ? 
Release  that  lady  ! 

(Hub'N  fights  with  LORENZO.     His  servants  rush  in.) 

EDWARD. 

For  your  own  soul's  sake, 
I  pray  you,  Leonora ! 

LEONORA. 

Spare  your  words ; 

My  will  is  turned  and  set  like  adamant. 
Me  shall  you  ne'er  see  more ! 

(HuoN  wounds  LORENZO.    His  servants  and  he  carry 
off  LEONORA.) 

EDWARD. 

Have  after  them  1 

LORENZO. 

I  cannot,  —  I  am  wounded  ;  hasten  you  ! 

EDWARD  (rushing  after  them ;  stops). 
Too  late  !  the  carriage  passes,  swift  as  hell ! 
0,  those  black  steeds  I     With  one  defiant  smile, 
She  disappears  —  the  last  of  Leonora  ! 

(LORENZO  totters  and  falls.) 
My  friend,  you  're  pale  and  bleeding.     What  is  this  ? 


100  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LORENZO. 

'T  is  only  death,  that  comes  to  all  men  once,  — 
To  me  less  welcome,  from  so  base  a  hand. 
But  what,  —  the  action  hath  a  solemn  strain, 
That  calms  men's  passions  for  the  scene  beyond. 
How  hot  and  rash  was  I,  an  hour  agone,  — 
Ten  minutes,  —  and  how  tamely  I  lie  down 
Never  to  rise  again  ! 

EDWARD. 

You  shall  not  die  I 

Help  is  at  hand.     I  '11  bear  you  in  my  arms 
To  where  the  surgeon's  knowledge  shall  avail. 
Soft,  —  let  me  raise  you. 

LORENZO. 

Think  of  her,  of  her  ! 
My  need  is  ended  ;  hers  is  just  begun. 
Kemember,  though  my  blood  be  vilely  shed, 
It  is  in  Mercy's  holy  cause  I  die  ! 

EDWARD  (assisting  him). 
Heaven  send  us  help !     I  cannot  lose  you  thus  I 

LORENZO. 

How  the  day  darkens  !     Ev'n  the  sun  grows  cold  ! 
Lay  me  down  gently  !  kiss  me,  my  own  Edward  ! 

(Dies.) 

EDWARD. 

Ah,  God !  he  dies  1     My  love  is  changed  to  hate  ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  101 

The  noblest  heart  of  men  I  ever  knew, 

Slain  for  her  wanton  pleasure  !     Go,  I  curse  thee  ! 

Thou  cankered  blossom  !  —  ay,  thou  poison-sweet ! 

T  were  better  die  than  love  thee  !     My  Lorenzo  ! 

This  was  the  only  brother  of  my  heart, 

And  Leonora  is  his  murderer ! 


ACT    FOURTH. 

SCENE    I.  —  A  Street.    Enter  two  COURTIERS. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Strange  things  have  happened  since  you  left  our 

court. 

Huon  is  banished  ;  Berto  sent  away 
On  some  wild  errand  to  an  Indian  prince 
One  never  heard  of,  never  hopes  to  see. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

You  Ve  gained  in  losing  reprobates  like  these. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Yes,  truly  ;  but  the  question,  Who  goes  next  ? 
Leaves  anxious  silence  at  the  hearts  of  all, 
And  they  whose  wisdom  never  is  at  fault 
Fill  up  the  gap  with  stories  of  their  own. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

What  do  they  say  ? 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

One  thing  in  various  shapes  ; 
But  you  shall  hear  it  as  'tis  most  believed. 

(102) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  103 

There  is  a  woman  near  the  prince's  heart 
Who  guides  him,  as  a  pilot  guides  the  helm. 
They  say  her  chamber  '&  floored  with  amethyst, 
And  hung  with  beaten  gold  ;  while  jewels  take 
The  counterfeit  of  flowers  ;  the  lily's  cup 
Presented  stands  in  pearl  and  emerald, 
While  clustered  rubies  emulate  the  rose. 
And  she  in  whom  these  splendors  concentrate 
Outvies  them  in  her  youth's  magnificence. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

Have  any  seen  her  ? 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Would  she  walk  abroad, 
Think  you,  for  common  men  to  look  upon  ? 
She  's  veiled,  and  does  not  pass  her  chamber-door ; 
Yet  her  malignant  eyes  are  everywhere. 
So  runs  the  common  talk. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

Poh  !  poh  !  a  myth. 

'T  is  thus  the  vulgar  mind  impersonates 
Its  idle  dreaming  of  the  things  that  rule. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

They  say  she  has  .a  wicked  loveliness, 

A  seraph's  beauty,  with  a  demon's  heart ; 

So,  all  that  goes  amiss  is  laid  to  her. 

There  creeps  a  shadow  'twixt  the  people's  love 


104  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

And  the  good  prince,  so  frank  and  debonair  ;  — 
'T  is  hers,  the  Lady  of  the  evil  eye. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

What  says  Lothair  ? 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

I  know  not  what  he  says,  — 
But  he  is  changed,  of  late.     How  he  is  changed  ! 
He  wears  the  scars  of  trouble  on  his  brow, 
And  his  fair  eyes  look  otherwise  than  when 
They  glanced  about  for  conquests. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

Poor  Lothair ! 

He  was  a  trifler,  for  a  man  of  parts, 
And  very  handsome.     Is  the  Countess  well  ? 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

I  scarcely  know.     They  're  much  retired  from  court. 
'T  is  said,  the  money-lenders  press  him  hard. 
Those  vultures  circle  in  the  van  of  ruin, 
And  fan  it  onward  with  their  eager  wings. 
But,  talking  of  our  gossip,  here  he  comes, 
And  at  his  side,  a  noted  usurer. 

Enter  LOTHAIR,  —  JACOB  following. 

LOTHAIR. 

You  shall  not  bend  me  to  your  purposes 
To-night.     Go  hence,  and  let  me  see  the  world 
Without  your  shadow  !  (JACOB  retires.) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  105 

SECOND  COURTIER. 

Shall  we  speak  to  him  ? 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

What,  ho,  —  Lothair  I 

LOTH  AIR  (starting}. 

I  greet  you,  gentlemen  ! 
Pardon  the  rudeness  of  an  absent  man, 
Who  lives  much  in  his  own  ill-company. 

FIRST-  COURTIER. 

I  would  but  ask  you  where  your  wits  are  flown, 
That  I  might  volunteer  to  bring  them  back. 
What,  man  !  are  you  bewitched  ?  or  does  the  Jew 
Feed  on  your  heart's  blood  ? 
LOTHAIR. 

He  's  a  mine  of  shrewdness, 
A  serviceable  imp. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

I  know  him  well. 

Trust  me,  you  '11  find  him  mine  and  countermine. 
D'  ye  go  to  court  ?     The  prince  receives,  to-night. 

LOTHAIR. 
I  have  forsaken  gayeties,  of  late. 

SECOND    COURTIER. 

And  gayety  hath,  in  turn,  forsaken  you. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Break  from  these  moody,  melancholy  ways  ;  . 
Let  the  world  see  your  handsome  face  again. 


106  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LOTHAIR. 

The  world  is  changed  ;  it  pleases  me  no  more. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Man  !  man  !  you  grow  distempered  in  your  mind. 
What 's  changed  —  the  music  ?  for  the  better,  then,  — 
The  wine,  the  women,  or  our  gracious  prince  ? 
Your  whims  have  spider-webbed  your  pane  of  glass, 
So  to  your  eye  the  face  of  earth  is  dark. 

LOTHAIR. 
It  may  be  so. 

FIRST    COURTIER. 

Then  fling  this  humor  off, 
And  smile  abroad  upon  y^our  favorites  ; 
Or,  if  you  seek  distraction,  try  the  cards. 

LOTHAIR. 

Have  with  you,  gentlemen  !    Your  friendly  cheer 
Should  be  the  earnest  of  auspicious  fortunes. 

(Exeunt.} 

SCENE  II.  — ZINGARA,  JACOB. 

ZINGARA. 

The  hospitable  night  hath  spread  her  tent, 
Lighting  the  torches  that  the  gypsy  loves, 
For  the  dark  feast  of  Eblis.  Stolen  things 
Have  sweetest  savor  thus,  and  thou  and  I, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  107 

Whose  torment  is  the  Christian's  holiday, 
May  plot  their  ruin,  and  defy  their  wrath. 

JACOB. 

You  're  wild  of  speech.     I  bear  a  sober  mind, 
Entirely  giv'n  to  the  affair  in  hand. 

ZINGARA. 

Fit  instrument  of  her  who  hires  us 
To  spy  upon  each  other. 

JACOB. 

She  is  right ; 

Albeit,  the  thing  is  needless  in  our  case, 
Since  love  of  money  and  of  mischief  vie 
To  speed  us  on  our  errand. 

ZINGARA. 

Has  yours  sped  ? 
JACOB. 

Not  ill,  indeed  ;  the  fish  is  in  the  net, 
And  though  he  flounders  in  his  element, 
Trust  me,  I  '11  bring  him  heedfully  to  shore. 

ZINGARA. 

It  is  a  joy  to  bait  these  Christian  hounds, 
And  set  them  on  to  tear  each  other's  bones. 
I  know  no  pleasure  like  it. 

JACOB. 

What '&  your  task  ? 


108  THE    WORLD  S    OWN. 

ZINGARA. 

The  thing  I  can  do  better  than  another,  — 
To  steal  a  creature  with  fair  silken  locks, 
And  bring  it  to  my  mistress. 
JACOB. 

So  !  a  dog  ? 

ZINGARA. 

Why,  Jacob,  you  are  quick  to  guess,  —  a  dog, 
A  certain  favorite  spaniel  of  the  count's  ; 
Or,  if  you  will,  a  lamb,  a  lady-bird, 
A  thing  whose  loss  shall  make  them  howl  again, 

I  promise  you ! 

JACOB. 

You  '11  need  my  help  for  that. 

ZINGARA. 

Your  help,  indeed  !     I  '11  ask  it  when  I  do. 
I  own  I  'd  rather  keep  the  little  wretch  ; 
I  'd  crop  its  curls  and  sell  them  ;  it  should  drudge, 
Curse,  steal,  lie  for  me,  when  't  were  big  enough. 

JACOB. 
Could  you  not  bring  another  in  its  place  ? 

ZINGARA. 

That  were  to  caper  in  the  jaws  of  hell. 
I  tell  you,  Jacob,  I  'm  afraid  of  her, 
She  is  so  sweetly,  coldly  terrible. 
Besides,  she  knows  it  by  the  father's  eyes. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  109 

JACOB. 
Hist,  then  !  a  hasty  footstep  comes  this  way. 

(LOTHAIR  rushes  in.) 
LOTHAIR  (wildly). 
Hence !     I  am  mad  to  think  on  what  I  've  seen ! 

(JACOB  approaches.) 
Who  's  this  that  dares  to  stop  a  desperate  man  ? 

JACOB. 
'T  is  Jacob. 

LOTHAIR. 

Ill  confound  thee  !  give  me  way  ! 

JACOB. 
I  '11  call  to-morrow. 

LOTHAIR. 

In  the  devil's  time  ! 

(Exit.) 

JACOB. 

Whose  fault  is  't,  if  you  lose  at  cards,  Sir  Count? 

We  are  a  little  hot  and  rash  to-night, 

And  must  have  leave  a  while  to  vent  our  spleen. 

'T  is  but  a  flare-up  in  a  wasted  socket ; 

To-morrow  he  '11  be  black  and  still  enough. 

But  see  the  signal  in  the  turret  yonder,  — 

It  calls  for  both  of  us  —  away  I 

ZINGARA. 

Away ! 


110  THE    WORLD  S    OWN. 

SCENE    HI.  —  A  Room  in  LOTHAIR'S   Palace.     LOTHAIR, 
HELEN. 

LOTHAIB. 

Helen,  see  at  your  feet  a  ruined  man, 
Give  him  quick  shelter  from  the  fiend  abroad. 
I  know  I  stabbed  you  to  the  heart,  poor  wife  ! 
But  that  great  heart  must  shield  and  save  me  now. 

HELEN. 

You  come  so  wildly,  with  these  staring  eyes, 
That  bloodless  face  ;  —  compose  yourself  a  while, 
Then  tell  me  what  befell  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

The  list  is  long 

Of  your  misfortunes,  purchased  by  my  crimes  ; 
But,  pray  you,  draw  the  bolt,  ere  I  begin. 

(HELEN  bolts  the  door,  and  returns  to  him.) 
First,  then,  your  fortune  's  wasted  to  the  winds  ; 
Your  dowry,  ay,  your  boy's  inheritance, 
Your  very  diamonds,  forfeit  to  the  Jew. 

HELEN. 

I  have  expected  this.     I  know  not  why. 
What  further  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Are  you  greedy  of  despair, 
That  thus  you  drain  it  down,  and  ask  for  more  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  Ill 

HELEN. 

Who  stops  to  taste  a  poison,  drop  by  drop  ? 
I  could  have  begged  your  bread  from  door  to  door, 
Once,  and  not  thought  it  scorn.     So,  let  that  pass. 
Give  me  the  last,  the  worst  calamity. 

LOTH  AIR  (looking  about  him). 
Come  nearer,  then.     I  have  an  enemy, 
Whether  in  flesh  and  blood  it  walks  the  earth, 
Or  whether  't  is  a  wild,  avenging  ghost, 
I  know  not.     You  believe  in  miracles, 
Give  credence  to  the  tears  of  pictured  eyes,  — 

( With  meaning.) 
Think  you  a  portrait  could  have  speech  ?    It  can. 

HELEN. 

Your  madness  almost  lends  itself  to  me, 
So  swift  these  sudden  horrors  shock  the  brain  ; 
But  I  must  calm  you  with  good  countenance. 
Call  back  your  senses  ;  tell  me  what  you  saw. 

LOTHAIR. 

You  know  I  have  not  crossed  the  palace  gate 

Since  what  you  wot  of.     I  was  there,  to-night ; 

A  friend  persuaded  me  ;  and  I,  heart-worn 

With  cares  and  losses,  flung  myself  his  way. 

The  Prince  —  well,  well,  no  matter  how  he  seemed ; 

I  passed  beyond,  to  seat  myself  at  cards  ; 

Duke  Cesarini  was  my  adversary. 


112  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Our  play  was  high,  and  mine  most  fortunate, 

Winning  a  sum  to  ransom  my  estates. 

"  Enough,"  cried  I.     "  Not  so,"  the  duke  rejoined, 

"  Are  you  not  bound  to  give  me  my  revenge  ?  " 

Just  as  I  spoke,  methought,  a  sudden  gleam 

Plashed  on  me  from  a  portrait  opposite  ; 

I  looked,  I  saw  the  unmistakable  face, 

I  heard  these  words,  "  Revenge  is  slow,  but  sure  !  " 

HELEN. 
Who  was 't  you  saw  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

One  whom  I  cannot  name. 
Ah,  God !  she  was  not  as  she  used  to  be, 
Tender,  and  fresh,  and  passionate  in  love  ; 
She  seemed  a  ghost  escaped  from  hopeless  hell, 
All  her  fair  features  gathered  up  to  give 
A  fiend's  expression  of  malignity. 
"  It  is  your  work !  "  she  whispered,  as  I  gazed ; 
Then  she  was  gone,  and  all  around  grew  dim. 

HELEN. 
And  then  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

I  heard  one  call,  "  Play  on,  Lothair  I " 
I  flung  a  card  down  blindly,  in  the  mist ; 
The  winner  laughed  aloud,  and  all  was  lost ! 


THE  WORLDS  OWN.  113 

HELEN. 

How  did  this  end  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

I  raised  my  eyes,  at  length, 
And  saw  a  well-known  picture  on  the  wall, 
A  Fornarina  that  was  always  there. 
I  staggered  from  the  room,  and  hurried  here. 

HELEN. 

What  have  you  suffered  ere  you  came  to  this  ! 
Unhappy  man  !  your  brain  is  over-wrought, 
You  see  its  phantoms  as  realities. 
Go  in,  —  persuade  your  weary  eyes  to  rest ; 
I  '11  calm  your  throbbing  temples  on  my  couch. 
Why  should  we  waste  our  grief  on  fortunes  lost  f 
Far  from  the  dang'rous  splendors  of  the  court, 
We  '11  lead  a  happier,  wiser  life  ;  and  I 
Will  be  your  own  fond  Helen,  as  of  old. 
You  see  I  have  forgiv'n,  forgotten  all, 
Save  that  you  need  the  love  I  promise  you. 

LOTHAIR. 

0  faultless-tempered,  0  true  woman's  heart ! 
Thy  love  re-conquered,  let  all  treasures  go  1 

(He  sinks  into  her  arms.      A  knock  is  heard 

without.     They  start,  in  alarm.     The  knock  is 

repeated. ) 

HELEN  (going  to  the  door). 
Who  knocks  ? 

8 


114  THK  WORLD'S  OWN. 

VOICE  (uiitkout).    .-' 

A  friend. 

HELEN. 

What  seek  you  at  this  hour  ? 

VOICE. 

I  must  have  instant  speech  with  Count  Lothair. 
'T  is  at  his  peril  if  you  bar  the  door.. 

HELEN  (to  LOTHAIR). 
Q.O  jn>  —  leave  me  to  deal  with  him  alone. 

LOTHAIR. 

So  far  my  manhood  hath  not  left  me  yet. 

( Going  to  the  door. ) 

You  say  you  are  a  friend  to  Count  Lothair ; 
How  shall  I  trust  you  ? 

VOICE. 

By  three  angles  bound, 
Three  arcs,  one  circle,  and  the  mystic  word 
We  only  speak  in  presence. 

LOTHAIR. 

He  must  enter. 
Whate'er  your  errand,  welcome,  in  God's  name  ! 

Enter  MESSENGER,  hooded  and  cloaked. 
LOTHAIR. 

I  know  you  not. 

MESSENGER  (showing  a  blazon}. 

You  know  the  badge  I  wear. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  115 

One  of  the  ancient  Brotherhood  am  I, 
Fellow  of  yours  and  Huon's. 

LOTHAIR. 

Whoso  bears 

That  mark,  is  in  my  house  as  light  and  air. 
Ev'n  on  my  death-bed  I  attend  his  need. 
ITow  can  I  serve  you  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Nowise  in  the  world  ; 
'T  is  I  must  serve  you.     We  should  speak  alone. 

LOTHAIR. 

Leave  us,  dear  Helen  ! 

HELEN. 

Do  not  bid  me  go  ; 

Let  the  new  danger,  falling,  crush  us  both, 
Nor  single  one  to  bear  the  other's  torture. 

LOTHAIR. 

Fear  not,  —  't  is  one  of  a  Fraternity 
Whom  fearful  oaths  have  bound  for  mutual  help  ; 
And,  though  'tis  like  we  never  met  before, 
We  are,  till  death,  beholden  to  each  other. 

HELEN. 

I  'm  loth  to  leave  you.     Heav'n  protect  us  all  I 

(Exit.) 


Well,  friend  ? 


LOTHAIR,    MESSENGER. 
LOTHAIR. 


116  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

MESSENGER. 

My  errand  is  best  quickest  done  ; 
Great  needs  must  crowd  the  wheels  of  strategy. 
Who,  single-handed,  keeps  the  pass  of  Fate, 
Should  have  a  far  eye,  and  a  fearless  hand. 
I  can  but  warn  you  of  the  danger  nigh, 
And  trust  your  high  resolve  to  save  yourself. 

LOTH  AIR. 
Speak  plainly. 

MESSENGER. 

You  are  ruined  with  the  Prince  ; 
Your  fellows  met  the  doom  of  banishment ; 
Your  turn  is  next,  —  not  banishment,  but  death. 

LOTHAIR. 

I  cannot  find  a  sin  against  my  Prince 
In  my  most  deep  remembrance.     He  and  I 
Are  of  one  age,  —  were  play-fellows  in  youth, 
And  friends  thereafter.     Should  he  do  me  harm, 
When  naught  could  move  him  to  it  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Let  me  ask, 
How  did  you  vex  the  demon  of  the  palace  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

Your  words  strike  deadly  terror  through  my  veins. 
What  mean  you  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Why  —  the  Prince's  Favorite  ; 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  lit 

'T  is  she  doth  lead  him  to  these  cruelties, 
So  new,  so  strange.     She  draws  him  with  a  hair  ; 
She  binds  him  in  a  chain  of  perfumed  breath, 
Padlocked  with  kisses.     What  she  wills,  he  does  ; 
Our  lives  are  in  her  hand. 

LOTHAIR. 

0,  hideous  dream  !  — 
Who  is  she  ? 

MESSENGER. 

God  and  Satan  only  know. 
No  man  has  seen  her ;  but  her  evil  power 
Shows  its  malignant  presence  everywhere. 

LOTHAIR. 
Is  this  a  nightmare  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Do  not  think  it  such. 

Your  time  is  short ;  —  the  morrow  is  your  own  ; 
Beyond  that,  nothing  but  eternity. 

LOTHAIR. 
Can  I  not  fly  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Your  every  step  is  watched  — 
Spies  are  about  you  in  your  very  bed. 

LOTHAIR. 
Great  Heaven  !     What  help  remains  ? 

MESSENGER. 

One  sole  resource, 
The  deed  of  Brutus,  swift  and  terrible  ! 


118  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Cleave  the  false  heart,  and  let  the  murderous  arm 
Drop  powerless,  ere  the  fatal  bolt  be  hurled. 

(Shows  a  dagger.) 
LOTH  AIR  (turning  away  his  head). 
No,  no  !  not  bloodshed  ! 

MESSENGER. 

Whose  blood  ?     His,  or  yours  ? 
What  if  I  had  your  sentence  in  my  bosom, 

( Takes  out  a  paper. ) 

Caught  on  its  way  ? Read  this. 

LOTHAIR. 

It  is  not  signed. 

MESSENGER. 

It  wants  a  signature  that  will  not  fail. 

Why,  man,  we  would  not  leave  the  task  to  you  ; 

A  dozen  stouter  hearts  and  surer  hands 

Direct  the  swift-descending  tool  of  death. 

We  only  want  your  name  and  countenance  ; 

Record  them  here.  (Showing  a  parchment.) 

LOTHAIR. 

I  must  have  time  to  think. 
Leave  me  this  night ;  come  back  at  early  dawn. 
I  shall  be  ready. 

MESSENGER. 

It  will  be  too  late. 
Necessity  is  not  a  merchant's  clerk, 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  119 

To  be  put  off  from  payment  for  a  day  ! 

Give  me  your  name,  or  keep  your  tardy  courage 

For  the  confessor  and  the  headsman's  axe. 

LOTHAIR. 
Give  here  !  (Signs.) 

MESSENGER. 

So,  so  !  —  the  thing  is  bravely  done  ; 
1  give  you  rendezvous  to-morrow  night 
At  the  Redoubt.     You  '11  meet  a  domino 
In  black  and  yellow.     Touch  your  vizard  thus, 
And  he  shall  bring  you  to  our  company.  — 
Now  go  to  rest,  and  think  your  life  is  safe.      (Exit.) 

LOTHAIR. 

lie  's  gone,  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  him. 
I  do  not  rightly  know  what  I  have  done, 
Such  horrors  hedge  my  footsteps  everywhere. 
Shall  I  lie  down  ?     For  me  is  no  repose. 
Sleep  shall  o'ercome  mo  with  her  awful  shapes, 
And  pin  me  helpless  in  my  agony. 
There  is  one  refuge.     Death  shall  find  me  there  ! 
Helen  !  to  thy  protecting  arms  I  come  !  (Exit.) 

SCENE  IV.  — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

LEONORA. 

I  had  not  thought  t'  have  found  mankind  so  vile  I 
I  looked  for  shame,  at  least,  where  villains  trade 


120  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

In  blood  and  falsehood.     I  discern  it  not. 

Where'er  I  need  an  instrument  of  ill 

To  speed  my  dreadful  work,  straightway  appears, 

As  from  an  ambush,  some  vile  human  tool 

That  begs  my  using.     Royalty  itself 

Takes  service  with  its  sceptre  and  its  sword, 

Staining  its  dainty  fingers  in  my  quarrel. 

Thus,  all  things  favor  me  save  yonder  Heaven, 

Whose  stern  compression  keeps  my  forehead  bent, 

Lest  evil  eyes,  aspiring  to  its  sunshine, 

Should  dare  to  claim  its  promise.     What  of  that  ? 

Avenging  God  !  it  is  thy  work  I  do, 

Though  Thou  disown  it.     Smile  where  Thou  likest 

best, 

I  do  not  seek  thy  favor.     Downward  lies 
My  way  ;  but,  ere  I  plunge,  the  shrieks  of  one 
Dragged  struggling  from  the  bosom  of  delight, 
And  hurled  before,  make  hideous  sacrifice, 
And  spread  my  fall,  as  soft  as  feathery  night. 

(A pause.     She  hears  a  step.) 
The  Prince  ? 

Enter  the  PRINCE. 

PRINCE. 
You  sent  for  me,  my  Beautiful  ? 

LEONORA. 

Forgive  me,  gentle  sovereign,  if  I  erred. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  121 

PRINCE. 

You  know  how  dear  these  precincts  are  to  me  ! 
How  sacred,  — how  my  leaping  heart  awaits 
Your  messenger,  —  too  seldom  and  too  slow 
For  rny  desires  !     The  Prince  can  summon  all 
But  Leonora  ;  she  must  summon  him. 

LEONORA. 

I  am  too  much  beholden  to  your  goodness 
To  find  a  ready  answer.     Gratitude 
Weighs  down  my  utterance  ;  let  me  rather  break 
At  once  th'  unwelcome  business  of  this  hour, 
Set  for  me  by  my  duty. 

PRINCE. 

Do  not  fear ! 
Ill  tidings  should  be  sweet,  love,  told  by  you. 

LEONORA. 

0,  how  my  woman's  nature  hates  this  work  ! 
I  must  unmask  a  traitor  to  your  eyes. 
Suspecting  long,  I  hold  the  proofs  at  last ; 
But  guilt  so  black,  my  heart  had  ne'er  alleged. 
I  pause  and  tremble  with  the  dreadful  work  ;  — 
The  Count  Lothair  conspires  to  take  your  life  ! 

PRINCE. 

Lothair !    My  fairest,  you  are  misinformed. 
He  's  an  offender  in  another  sense. 
Lothair's  worst  treasons  are  to  womankind. 


122  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LEONORA. 

A  man  that  can  betray  a  woman's  love 
Avoids  no  crime  for  its  enormity. 

PRINCE. 

You  must  not  be  too  stern,  my  Puritan  ! 
Our  courtiers  keep  not  the  chivalrous  faith 
Of  their  grim  grandsires. 

LEONORA. 

Pardon !     I  forgot 

The  times  we  live  in.  I  have  surely  heard 
That  loyalty  to  Sovereigns  and  to  Women 
Went  out  of  date  together. 

PRINCE. 

You  are  keen ! 

I  pity  him  who  is  your  enemy. 
LEONORA. 

But  Count  Lothair, 

PRINCE. 

Call  him  a  reprobate, 
A  man  capricious,  thriftless,  passionate. 
Do  you  not  see  he  has  too  little  weight 
For  good  or  evil  ?     Like  this  sword  of  mine, 
With  jewelled  hilt  and  gold-encrusted  blade, 
'T  is  a  rare  bauble  for  a  holiday  — 
For  service,  now,  what  fool  would  borrow  it  ? 


THE    WORLD  8    OWN.  12(5 

LEONORA. 

Read  but  this  document.  ( Giving  paper.} 

PRINCE  (reading}. 

I  am  amazed ! 

His  name  upon  the  villauous  enrolment  ? 
Why,  this  is  unimagined  infamy ! 
What  could  have  brought  him  to  it  ? 
LEONORA. 

Urgent  need, 

With  hope  and  promise  of  high  dignity. 
How  often  is  a  daring  public  deed 
Hatched  vilely  from  the  occasion  of  the  hour, 
As  from  an  egg  a  viper  ! 

PRINCE. 

'T  is  most  true. 

I  know  that  he  hath  been  in  straits  of  late, 
And  thought  to  help  him  for  his  father's  sake, 
And  for  a  careless  friendship  that  I  bear  him  ; 
While  his  false  eyes  took  measure  of  my  throat ! 
Such  faith  doth  follow  princes.     Are  you  sure 
He  signed  this  devil's  patent  knowingly, 
Having  possessed  the  tenor  of  the  bond  ? 

LEONORA. 

My  royal  master,  look  into  this  face  ; 
A  sad  one,  — you  are  pleased  to  say,  a  fair. 


124  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

You  would  not  think  it  were  a  marble  mask 

Of  falsehood,  that  should  put  his  crime  to  shame  ? 

PRINCE. 
The  very  words  are  impious  ! 

LEONORA. 

Hear  me,  then ! 

By  every  feature  that  you  love,  I  swear 
Lothair  's  a  perjured,  faithless,  ruthless  villain  I 

PRINCE. 

Your  oath  is  awful ;  it  commands  my  faith 
As  't  were  a  word  from  God. 

LEONORA. 

I  thank  your  Grace. 
PRINCE. 

0,  I  am  sad  to  think  upon  this  man, 
Whose  thankless  graces  made  him  dear  to  me  ! 
I  thought  him  gentle,  spite  of  grievous  faults. 

( With  emotion. ) 
I  loved  him  ! 

LEONORA. 

How  this  tenderness  of  heart 
Exalts  the  hate  I  bear  him  ! 

PRINCE. 

We  must  act. 
When  should  the  deed  be  done  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  125 

LEONORA. 

This  very  night. 

I  've  a  device  shall  bring  him  in  our  toils  ; 
Sign  but  this  warrant  —  leave  the  rest  to  me. 

PRINCE. 
Must  he  then  die  ? 

LEONORA. 

Justice  should  turn  on  us 
Her  awful  anger  did  we  falter  here. 
Think,  't  is  my  life  he  plots  against,  sweet  prince  ! 
And  for  the  love  you  bear  me,  waver  not ! 

PRINCE. 

Those  lips  can  never  miss  the  thing  they  ask. 
Ev'n  this  sad  boon  I  grant  them. 

(Signs.) 


ACT    FIFTH. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Dark  Room  in  the  Palace,  Several  figures  in 
masks  stand  in  the  background.  In  front,  LEONORA  and  the 
PRINCE,  also  masked.  On  the  left,  wearing  no  mask,  the 
MESSENGER. 

LEONORA. 

Well  met.     The  hour  and  the  man  approach. 

PRINCE. 
I  hear  a  step  along  the  corridor. 

LEONORA. 

My  trusty  messenger  has  brought  him  safe, 
Through  winding  paths,  to  meet  his  fellows  here. 

PRINCE. 

Who  is  that  yonder  ? 

LEONORA. 

He  to  whose  keen  scent 
We  owe  the  tracing  of  this  shameful  plot. 
He  shall  be  spokesman. 

Enter  LOTHAIR,  blindfold,  led  also  by  a  mask. 

MESSENGER. 

Take  the  bandage  off. 

(126) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  127 

LOTHAIR  (looks  around  him). 
Where  am  I  ? 

MESSENGER. 

In  the  presence  of  your  friends. 

LOTHAIR. 

Why  are  they  masked  ? 

MESSENGER. 

In  risks  so  desperate, 
Men  must  be  cautious  of  their  fellowship. 
These  wait  to  be  assured  of  your  good  faith. 

LOTHAIR. 

Whatever  other  treason  I  intend, 
I  mean  none  here. 

MESSENGER. 

Turn,  then,  and  tell  them  so. 

LOTHAIR. 

Methinks  my  coming  hither  was  enough, 
Without  more  words. 

MESSENGER. 

You  waver  in  your  mind ; 
Men  name  you  as  a  man  of  no  resolve. 

LOTHAIR. 
Wait  till  I  give  you  cause  for  this  reproach. 

(Turning  towards  the  otters.) 

Friends,  I  '11  not  praise  th'  intent  that  calls  us  here  ; 
Not  choice  doth  make  it,  but  necessity. 


128  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Where  sudden  danger  leaves  no  chance  of  good*, 
It  is  the  lesser  evil  we  embrace. 

MESSENGER. 

We  are  agreed  ;  like  must  be  met  by  like. 

A  tyrant  must  be  tyrannously  quelled. 

He  has  his  troops,  his  hangman  ;  —  what  have  we  ? 

Only  the  resolute  heart  and  daring  hand. 

LOTHAIR. 

What  else,  indeed  ?     The  need  is  imminent ; 
The  remedy  the  only  one  in  sight, 
However  we  deplore  its  urgency. 

MESSENGER. 

This  paper  bears  your  lawful  signature  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

It  is  my  name. 

MESSENGER. 

Signed  freely? 
LOTHAIR. 
As  you  know. 

MESSENGER. 

Unmask,  then,  brothers  in  a  noble  cause  ! 
First  by  an  oath  devote  yourselves  to  death, 
Or  to  success  ;  the  tyrant's  death,  or  ours  ! 
Your  swords,  quick  !  let  them  clang  the  harsh  refrain  ? 
.(They  all  draw  their  swords.} 
Now,  then,  the  watchword !  give  it,  Count  Lothair ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  129 

LOTHAIR  (with  effort"). 
Death  to  the  tyrant !     Infamy  and  death  ! 

LEONORA  (unmasking}. 
Death  to  the  traitor  first ! 

LOTHAIR. 

What  do  I  see  ? 
Vengeance  of  God  ! 

LEONORA. 

Do  you  remember  me  ? 

LOTHAIR. 

0  fool !  I  am  betrayed  !     I  see  it  all ! 

Here  was  the  tool,  and  there  the  cunning  hand  I 

PRINCE  (unmasking). 
And  here  the  breast  at  which  your  steel  was  aimed ! 

LOTHAIR. 
My  Prince,  although  in  this  aspect  I  stand, 

1  do  implore  your  sovereign  leave  to  speak, 
And  show  a  thousand  damning  proofs  of  crime 
In  those  who  urged  me  to  this  enterprise. 

PRINCE. 

What  boots  it,  man,  who  tempted  you  ?     The  devil 
Tempts  every  cutpurse,  stabbing  on  the  road. 
The  gallows  does  not  heed  his  argument. 
Can  you  deny  your  guilt  ? 

LEONORA. 

Deny  it  ?     Yes, 
9 


130  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

He  would  deny  the  mother's  face  that  bore  him, 
Could  it  but  serve  his  purpose. 

LOTH  AIR. 

I  am  dumb. 

PRINCE. 

Chief  of  my  guards,  arrest  this  gentleman  ! 
Strike  off  the  spurs  from  his  unknightly  heels. 
To  the  state  dungeon  lead  him.     Give  the  priest 
And  headsman  leave  to  do  their  ghostly  work 
At  the  cock's  crow.     His  hours  on  earth  are  num 
bered. 

LOTHAIR. 

Grant  but  one  mercy  to  a  fallen  man, 
For  all  your  former  favors,  gracious  Prince  I 
One  parting  moment  with  my  wife  and  child,  — 
The  gift  of  tears,  my  only  legacy  ! 

LEONORA  (to  the  PRINCE). 
The  countess  is  arrested.     It  is  clear 
She  lent  her  aid  in  this. 

LOTHAIR. 

No  !  on  my  word  ! 

LEONORA. 

Traitor,  that  thing  you  lack ;  you  have  no  word  ! 

HELEN  (without). 
Lothair !  Lothair ! 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  131 

She  enters,  escorted  by  two  GUARDS,  breaking  furiously  from 
them. 

Let  me  have  room,  I  say  I 
Our  child  !  our  Arthur  !  — 

LOTHAIR. 
What  of  him  ? 

HELEN. 

He  'B  lost ! 

They  say  a  gypsy  lured  him  from  the  house. 
I  only  know  he  's  gone  !     0  God,  he  's  gone  ! 

(She  comes  close  to  LOTHAIR.) 
I  went  to  kiss  my  darling  in  his  bed,  — 
You  know  I  always  do,  —  he  was  not  there  ! 
He  's  hiding  now,  I  thought,  and  paused  a  while, 
To  let  the  little  creature  have  his  play  ; 
Then  called,  then  shrieked,  then  searched  the  whole 

house  over 

In  vain  ;  then  fled  distracted  through  the  streets, 
Crying  my  child  !  my  child  1  till  these  men  came 
And  brought  me  hither. 

LOTHAIR. 

God  I  must  I  bear  this  ? 

HELEN. 

Why  do  you  stand  there  ?  we  must  search  the  town. 

He  may  be  dead  or  dying  while  I  speak, 

Or  hidden  where  we  ne'er  shall  see  him  more  ! 


132  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

Come  with  me,  come  !  I  have  strength  for  everything. 
I  '11  drag  the  sewers,  dig  the  dung-heaps  through, 
Search  wizard  houses  as  the  lightning  leaps  ; 
I  '11  cope  with  witches,  in  their  murderous  dens, 
But  I  will  bring  him  back  !     Nay,  more  ;  methinks 
I  'd  tear  the  earth's  hard  bosom  with  these  hands, 
If  it  could  hide  him.     Who  are  these  that  stare  ? 
If  they  have  children,  they  will  lend  us  aid, 
And  we  will  serve  them  all  our  mortal  lives  ! 

LOTHAIR. 

Helen,  I  am  a  prisoner  to  the  state  ; 
My  head  is  forfeit.     This  o'erwhelming  hour 
Takes  life  and  all  its  blessings  at  one  blow. 

HELEN. 

My  sight  grows  dizzy.     No,  I  '11  not  sink  down 
Until  I  know  the  worst  I     (Perceiving  the  PRINCE.) 

Our  Sovereign,  too  ! 

What  does  he  here  ? 

PRINCE. 

Your  husband  is  a  traitor, 
And  so  condemned  to  meet  a  traitor's  doom  I 

HELEN. 

'T  is  false,  I  say  !     'T  is  slanderous  as  hell ! 
Who  says  Lothair  is  faithless  to  his  prince  ? 

(She  sees  LEONORA,  who  comes  foi^ward.) 
'T  is  she,  the  woman  with  the  wicked  smile  1 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  133 

She  called  the  curse  down  ;  it  has  come  at  last ! 
How  the  room  darkens  !     Help  me,  dear  Lothair  ! 
0,  to  have  kissed  my  boy  before  I  die  ! 

(She  sinks,  —  LOTHAIR  bends  over  her.) 
Part  softly,  Helen  ! 

LEONORA. 
She  shall  never  kiss  him  ! 

PRINCR. 
Convey  her  hence,  and  bid  the  leech  attend. 

( Tliey  bear  HELEN  away. ) 
LOTHAIR  (coming  close  to  LEONORA). 
Fiend  !  are  you  satisfied  ?     Is  this  enough  ? 
Could  not  my  ruin  glut  your  greed  of  blood, 
But  my  pure  wife,  my  guiltless  child,  must  perish, 
To  heap  the  measure  of  your  fell  revenge  ? 
'T  was  little  that  a  nobleman  should  die, 
Vilest  of  spiders,  strangled  in  your  web  I 

PRINCE. 
Silence ! 

LEONORA. 

I  pray  your  highness,  let  him  speak. 

LOTHAIR. 

Cornc  to  my  dungeon,  —  I  invite  you  there,  — 
Come  with  your  butchering  myrmidons,  and  hold 
Your  midnight  feast  of  blood.     The  torture  waits 
For  her  whose  malice  is  its  only  term. 


134  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

In  life  or  death  you  shall  not  make  me  moan. 

I  have  not  lived  as  I  was  born  to  live, 

Nor  kept  the  faith  and  courage  of  my  youth  ; 

But  here,  my  steps  find  footing  on  the  grave. 

With  this  brief  breath,  whose  latest  gasp  shall  curse 

The  day  we  met,  I  give  you  back  your  hate  ; 

I  scorn  you,  spit  upon  you,  and  defy  you  ! 

(The  guards  lead  away  LOTHAIR.     Scene  changes.} 


SCENE    II.  —  LEONORA'S  Bedchamber.     On  the  bed  a  child 
asleep. 

LEONORA. 

'T  was  great,  —  't  was  godlike  !    I  have  drunk  to  the 

full 

The  costly  wine  of  vengeance  ;  and  I  feel 
Its  mighty  madness  coursing  through  my  veins  I 
What  pang  was  left  forgotten  ?     What  disgrace  ? 
0,  man,  so  gallant  and  so  reckless  once, 
Crushing  the  poor  girl's  heart  in  your  white  hands  I 
Where  are  you  now  ?   Your  glozing  tongue  is  dumb  ; 
The  flashing  falsehoods  of  your  eyes  are  spent ; 
And  Death  and  you,  of  all  disguises  stript, 
Glare  grimly  on  each  other. 

Here  'B  his  boy ;  — 
I  shall  be  mad,  —  no  !     I  must  see  his  face. 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  135 

(She  goes  to  the  bed,  and  draws  the  curtain.) 
These  are  the  features  of  my  girlhood's  dream ; 
Thus  looked  my  idol,  ere  it  fell,  —  to  seam 
The  upturned  forehead  with  the  gash  of  shame. 
0,  what  a  god  he  seemed  !     He  stood  on  clouds ; 
Stars  shot  their  glances  through  his  azure  eyes 
That  were  my  Sun,  my  Heaven,  rny  Universe  ! 
It  is  the  folly  of  my  heart,  to  think 

(A  masked  figure  appears  behind  her.) 
That  something  bears  his  form  in  yonder  skies  ; 
Some  heavenly  delight  must  look  as  he  did. 
For  things  divine  have  twin-antipodes, 
And  Lucifer  hath  left  his  shining  peer 
Where  he  hath  no  hereafter. 

Night  wears  on, 

And  brings  no  pause.    The  hours  drop  off  like  pearls 
Into  the  silver  silence. 

(Taking  a  phial  from  her  bosom.) 

Here  's  a  draught 

Shall  help  me  to  a  moment  of  repose, 
With  this  concluding  thought,  —  I  am  revenged  ! 

MASK. 

You  shall  not  close  your  brilliant  eyes  to-night, 
My  countess.     I  have  work  for  them  to  do. 
The  midnight  summons  up  strange  visitors, 
And  here  's  a  friend  that  knows  you  through  your 
paint, 


136  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

And  all  your  wicked  bravery. 
LEONORA. 

What 's  this  ? 
I  am  betrayed. 

MASK. 

'T  were  justice  if  you  were,  — 
The  only  justice  you  are  knowing  to. 

LEONORA. 

I  '11  call  my  guards,  —  what,  ho  ! 

MASK. 

A.11  doors  are  closed  ; 
Your  sentinel  is  absent  by  my  leave. 
What  if  I  stood,  Heaven's  righteous  messenger, 
To  deal  with  you  a  little  in  your  sort  ? 
You  have  o'erthrown  your  mortal  enemy,  — 
Who  's  he  that  doth  avenge  mankind  of  you  ? 

LEONORA. 

Your  speech  is  haughty  as  your  voice  is  rude. 
Talk  as  you  will,  —  one  thing  alone  dare  not,  — 
To  think  I  fear  you. 

MASK. 

I  could  show  you  that 
Should  make  you  tremble. 

LEONORA. 

Show  it  then,  —  your  face  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  137 

MASK. 

That  has  no  office  in  this  interview. 
If  I  could  show  you  what  you  were  and  are, 
You  'd  feel  a  keener  anguish  than  your  foe 
Who  cannot  cry  to  Heaven  for  cursing  you. 
I  had  your  portrait  of  a  man  who  wore 
That  blushing  slander  of  all  womanhood 

(Shows  picture.) 

For  very  mockery.     See,  how  fresh,  how  pure ! 
How  dewy  sweet  a  morsel  for  the  fiend 
In  whose  wide  jaws  she  leaped  with  open  eyes  ! 

LEONORA. 

'Tis  my  young  face,  —  my  fair  and  innocent  face. 
What  wretch  art  thou,  to  torture  me  with  this  ? 

MASK. 

She  was  as  wild  and  arrogant  in  her  love 
As  in  the  hate  to  which  the  scorched  bud  ripened. 
Too  proud  to  bear  the  fortune  of  her  sex  ; 
Wronged  ever  more  than  wronging,  save  this"  one, 
She  grew  a  fiend  in  malice.     Help  was  near 
In  faithful  hearts,  and  in  the  priceless  power 
To  shame  misfortune  with  true  nobleness. 
From  loving  hands  held  out  she  turned  away, 
And  plunged  from  passion  into  infamy  ; 
Not  for  the  weakness  of  a  second  love, 
Or  sordid  need,  or  lust  of  leprous  splendor, 


138  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

But  for  the  ruin  of  one  wretched  soul, 
She  gave,  what  God  till  then  held  innocent, 
The  glories  of  her  youth.     The  prince's  mistress, 
There  is  her  portrait ;  you  behold  her  now  ! 

LEONORA. 
Is  this  enough  ? 

MASK. 

Her  measure  is  not  full ;  — 
The  prince's  love  she  might  have  ruled  for  good, 
As  thieves  are  generous  with  unrighteous  gold. 
The  patient  angel  kept  his  record  back  ; 
Hope  sent  her  leaping  scouts  along  the  road  ; 
Here  she  may  pause,  and  tremble,  and  turn  back  ; 
Here,  when  she  meets  the  infant's  pleading  eyes, 
She  may  forgive  the  father.     Further  still, 
When  all  his  heart-strings  quiver  in  her  hand, 
The  thought  may  dawn,  "  Why  should  I  crush  thee, 

worm  ?  " 

And  she  may  dash  her  deadly  purpose  down, 
A  costly  offering,  broken  in  God's  face. 
This,  too,  she  did  not.    What  remains  for  her 
But  the  Ghoule's  feast,  corruption,  horror,  blood  ? 

LEONORA. 

This  man  seems  risen  from  the  depths  of  hell, 
With  all  its  torment  burning  in  his  speech. 
Speak  ;  what  remains  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  139 

MASK. 

The  fate  of  ruined  souls,  — 
To  prosper  and  grow  fat  in  wickedness. 
I  've  seen  your  prototype  a  thousand  times  : 
Lucretia,  —  not  the  Heav'n-avenging  one,  — 
The  poisoning  Borgia,  fiend-like,  —  false,  and  cruel ; 
Or  Messalina,  with  the  cold  sly  look, 
Or  other  dames,  whose  pictures  give  us  fright 
Lest  they  should  claim  our  human  fellowship. 
Rather  than  you  should  grow  a  thing  so  vile, 

(Shows  a  dagger.) 

Methinks  't  were  merciful  to  slay  you  here ; 
A  brother's  deed,  — if  ev'n  a  brother's  love 
Could  follow  you  so  far. 

LEONORA  (snatches  the  dagger). 
Give  here  the  steel. 

Wrest  not  from  me  my  right  of  sacrifice. 
To  one  who  loved  me  as  a  brother  should, 
I  give  the  latest  struggle  of  my  heart. 

(Stabs  herself '.) 

EDWARD  (unmasking). 
Leonora ! 

LEONORA. 

Edward,  we  are  haply  met  1 

EDWARD. 
0,  rash,  heroic  deed ! 


140  THE  WORLD'S  OWN. 

LEONORA. 

Why  should  you  grieve  ? 
See  how  this  life-blood  lets  the  madness  out, 
That  pressed,  so  closely-packed,  upon  my  heart ; 
And  I  grow  calm  at  last ;  and,  as  in  dreams, 
Behold  the  peaceful  visions  of  my  youth. 
Deep  in  the  mountain's  heart  the  chalet  lies, 
And,  in  the  sun,  the  rustling  waterfall 
Leaps  gladly  evermore.     A  maiden  band 
Dance  rustic  measures  to  its  cool  refrain  ; 
And  one  in  white  moves,  taller  than  the  rest. 
D'  ye  see  it,  Edward  ? 

EDWARD. 
I  am  there  with  you. 

LEONORA. 

Who  's  he  that  passes  with  the  haughty  eyes  ? 
The  tall  girl  stopped  her  dancing  when  he  came, 
That  he  might  speak,  and  cheat  her  of  her  soul. 
Then,  there  was  vengeance  !  what  became  of  it  ? 
'T  is  gone.     I  see  you,  — know  myself  again,  — 
And  what  I  come  from.     We  must  save  Lothair, 
Whose  treason  was  the  fruit  of  my  deceit. 
Tell  him  I  spoke  forgiveness  ere  I  died. 
Help  !  —  I  grow  faint !  —  So,  let  me  lie  at  rest ! 

(Dies.) 


THE  WORLD'S  OWN.  141 

EDWARD. 

See  !  she  is  dying  !  my  beloved  is  dying  ! 
Ah,  God  !  the  parting  struggle  is  at  end. 
Let  the  white  shadow  lie  upon  my  heart, 
The  wreck  of  all  that  ;s  fair  and  excellent ; 
A  thing  of  tears  and  tenderness  forever  ! 


BOSTOX,  135  WAsni.viiTO.N  STRUT. 
APRIL,  1857. 

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